


The Magic of Christmas

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Elves, M/M, Magic, Minor Violence, Santa Claus - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-05 08:52:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 42
Words: 31,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5369264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's that time of the year and, as they have done since time immemorial, Santa's elves are preparing for the Great Run, Delivery Day, the 24th.  The Santa Village is a-bustle, the Yule log is burning brightly, and even Prancer is behaving. Everything is in general running smooothly until, that is, witches interfere -- as they are bound to do -- and a dark power rises. It's up to the chosen warrior to save Christmas, with the help of the most unlikely of elves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Unlikely Elf

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the flist for the plot-consultation. Unlike Santa, I'm not sure I can finish by Christmas myself, but finish I will. You might just get the climax of the story a little after the 25th. The truth is I just wanted to put up something festive, and so I'll be working at this, which seems to kinda fit the bill.

Santa Village, North Pole, December 201-

 

Merlin has just finished inventorying the last letter – this one comes in a large wobbly script and is addressed to Dear Father Christmas – when a new load is emptied on his desk.

Merlin looks up. “Really, more?”

Mordred gazes at him from under his floppy striped cap and grins. “The world's population has increased, Merlin. And you know that that means there are more children now than there have ever been before.”

Merlin humphs. “I preferred the Middle Ages.”

“Oh, that's not true,” Mordred says, shaking his burlap sack to make sure it's empty of all content. “You love kids.”

Merlin is indeed generally fond of the little mites. He loves telling them stories and watching their eyes shine when they ask Santa for presents. But he's been eyeballs deep into reams of letters ever since August, and it's come to the point he can't read anything anymore without having his vision swim. He's also developed a particular aversion for red ink – and the red colour in general –, which, considering the overall Santa Village décor, is a curse worthy of the Grinch. “It's just that I'm overworked. Did you know that I sort out at least two thousand letters per day? And then I index them away in a way that references at least two different filing systems? Did you know that?”

Mordred shakes his head no.

“And I note everything down in this ledger.” Merlin pats the tome. It's a fat one, at least 2,000 pages, bound in red leather. “Wishes, addresses, special parent notes of the little-Mikey-can't-have-nuts kind. Everything, down to the smallest detail, like chimney width.” Merlin quirks an eyebrow. “I've been at it since the first day of August.” That's when the missives start raining in. “It's quite mind-boggling. I'll love children again come January.”

Mordred turns the pompom of his cap sideways. “Well, it's only just starting.” He slings his sack over his shoulders and says, “I'll go back to the post office and get a new load of Santa letters.”

Mordred's at the door, when Merlin says, “You know, I envy you.”

“You envy me all the letter carrying?” Mordred arches an eyebrow. “Because let me tell you, this is my tenth trip today.”

“No, it's not that I'm jealous of.” Merlin has nothing against letter carrying, but what he longs for is something a little different. “It's just that...” Merlin shrugs. “I have all this elf magic, all of the power of Christmas, and I'm stuck inventorying letters.”

“I'm told you you're quite good at that and that the satisfaction index of kids world-wide's been very high ever since you took the job.”

Merlin pulls his shoulders back and straightens his spine. “I'm proud of that. I want all the world's children to be happy.”

“But?” Mordred leans against the door. “I know there's a but in there.”

Merlin sags against the chair and looks out the window. The vista is an undiluted mass of white punctuated in between by brightly lit Christmas trees. The tallest one is flaring blue and the one next to it is flashing red. The toppers are real stars. “I'd like to go out there and do something.”

“I heard the village council elves were looking for someone to help shovel snow from the main paths.”

Merlin sighs. “I didn't mean going into the village.” Merlin does that every day. He walks past the elvish post office, the reindeer stables and the recreation centre with the regularity of a Swiss clock. (And he knows about those because children of old used to ask for them.) It's part of his routine. It keeps him grounded when he's submerged in letters. Every week he holds there team building activities designed to foster communication among all the village residents. No, what he means is something decidedly different. “I want some adventure.” Merlin imagines how it would be like, to set forth on one. “I could go on a quest to find new flying reindeer for Santa. They're becoming frightfully rare. Or I could join him on the Great Run.”

Mordred's eyes widen. “The twenty-fourth?” he asks, his voice growing in pitch by the time the end of the sentence rolls around. “Merlin, you haven't even gone on trial runs before. You're not going to be assigned work on the nights of nights!”

“I know.” Merlin's shoulders slump. “I'm but a humble village elf.”

“Look, it's not not as if I don't understand myself.” He gives his sack a lift. “I do. This is drudgery. But we must be patient. I'm sure that in a few hundred years, we'll become part of Santa's Christmas Eve outfit.”

“Yes,” Merlin says, snuffling. For an elf he has too many colds. Besides, all the sniffing somehow helps with the self-pity. “You're right. I should be more patient.”

Mordred opens the door and snow flurries in. It moves in little whirlwinds that lose in momentum until the mass of it flounders, and deposits tselft on his bauble-shaped welcome mat. Mordred grins and tips up a shoulder. “I'm actually wiser than I look.”

“Yeah.” Merlin dips his quill into the pot of berry ink. Ballpoints have made it to the Santa Village a few years after they were invented, but the place is stuck on tradition and berry ink it is. And quills. “I know, Mordred.”

“Well,” Mordred says, lowering his cap on his brow. “Chin up, right, Merlin. Your chance will come.”

“Right, right.” Merlin notes down little Nellie's wishes. She's six, from Southampton, and she wants a new raquet to play raquetball with. “I know.”

Mordred nods and closes the door of the cottage. As he does, the garlands hanging from the rafters shake and sough, the charms and decoration attached to them tingling. The ever burning fire in the fireplace flares upwards with a whoosh. The logs crackle and shift on the hearth. releasing a hefty, earthy scent of moss. The flames themselves gather in shapes, stylised snowflakes, reindeer, and gift boxes. Merlin wags his fingers at them and says, “Shh, working here,” and goes back to filling his ledger. “Elodie, ten, from Limoges, wants a rocking horse. Markus, from Berlin, wants an iPhone. Stephen, from Montreal, wants to be as tall as his big sister...”


	2. A Handful of Witches

Austria, South Face of the Grossglockner, 5 December, 201- 

 

Morgana and Morgause land into a mound of snow. It's cold and compact, completely unsullied in its pristine whiteness. No prints befoul these ice coats, no human debris litter it, and no traces of passage break up its tightly-packed aspect. Small wonder too. Not that many people make it up here and sully the splendour of wild nature.

As beautiful as it is, it's unbearably cold however. 

Morgana rakes herself up and pats herself clean of the sludge clinging to her. Some of it has dampened her clothing and made it under the layers of wool and thermals she wears, but that can't be avoided.

As soon as she's clear of the worst of it, she takes a look around. The mountain top stands stark in front of her, grey rock capped with snow. Jagged boulders line the face of the Glocknerwand, cut sharp and jagged by the wind. The tip of the peak itself reflects the light of a perfect full moon, shimmering in the distance, flourishing above walls of fog, and standing clear of the glow of the snow.

“Are you sure we're in the right place, sister?” Morgana asks of Morgause. “There's nothing here but pines, rocks and glaciers.”

“I am, sister.” Morgause tips her head back and looks at the face of the mountain. “The creature hides here.”

Morgana wishes she could have Morgause's assurance, that she could look at the heights before them and know without the shadow of a doubt that they're going to complete their mission. “I can't sense it.”

“That's because,” Morgause tells her, “the creature sleeps.”

“Sleeps?” Morgana tips up her eyebrow.

“He's trapped in an enchanted slumber, a curse the people of these mountain-passes put upon him.” Morgause compresses her lips.

“I wasn't aware of this curse.” Morgause, Morgana has found, loves to keep her cards close to her chest, not to reveal her game play when she can keep mum. It's irksome to say the least. Morgana may have had an abnormal past as far as witches go, but she's one now and committed. “I thought we were just supposed to find it and set it free.”

“Like all midnight creatures, this one was unjustly feared,” Morgause says, arching an eyebrow. “It fell victim to people's blindness to its true and necessary nature.”

“I thought the creature was a demon.” Morgana has read her lore. “A punisher.”

“He was.” Morgause nods sharply. “He disciplined naughty kids, either corporally or by other more subtle means. And if they were irredeemable, truly bad, he took them to the underworld. He was the counterpart of Santa, the meter out of justice to Santa's rewarder of virtue.”

Morgana is aware of everything there is to know about Santa. She doesn't need to have his role explained to her. “But if he's a powerful demon, how was he put to sleep?”

“Trickery.” Morgause grunts. “They trapped him and bound him by way of magic, then put the spell on him.”

Morgana clacks her tongue. “Well, that must have taken courage. Imagine mortals tackling demons.”

“Is avoiding retribution courageous, sister?” Morgause purses her lips. “Is an unwillingness to accepts one's doom brave?”

“I suppose not.” Morgana does hate false cheeriness. 

“That's why we're on this mission, Morgana,” Morgause says, taking her hand. “We must stop mortals from creating a world where self-congratulation is the rule, a world that has no room for punishment and darkness. For the sinfulness that's in us all, that we all wallow in. We must stop Christmas.”

They've already agreed on that score or Morgana wouldn't be here now. But Morgana's by now learnt that one ought to show one's loyalty to Morgause, on pain of being viewed as an enemy. So she says, “Yes, indeed we must.”

A light, red as lava, shines in Morgause's palm. “Let's pick our way up.”

They climb. Wind blasts the peak and howls between crags. It raises flurries of snow that slam into their bodies wholesale. The flurries themselves whiten the path and cause all shapes to blur. If not for their magic warming them, they would long have fallen foul of the weather, or tripped into void. As it is, pockets of hot air envelop their body, soothing the lashings of the gale. 

Even so their progress isn't easy. They climb vertical slabs of rock, negotiate crevasses, and patiently seek out foot and handholds. Their hands bleed and their nails tear. But up they go. “Pity,” Morgana says, as she hoists herself up, “that witches can't really fly.”

Morgause groans, as she levers herself up onto a ledge. “Indeed, sister, we must suffer for our cause.”

“I wonder,” Morgana says, as she works her foot into a crevice, “how the old villagers managed to lure the creature up here of all places.”

“They chose the strongest in their group,” Morgause says, sitting with her back to the rock-face and rubbing warmth into her legs. “A band made up of witch-hunters, wise-women, guides, and mountaineers. They chose this spot because they thought it impenetrable.”

“What little foresight.” Mortals are like that in Morgana's experience. They never think they the world around them can change so much they won't be able to recognize it anymore, that technology can shape the way we act. It takes a soul full of courage to embrace the very idea of transitoriness. “What little prudence.”

“Indeed, they failed to take many aspects into consideration.” Morgause hums low and her breath crystallises as she speaks. “Without their Chosen Warrior they probably wouldn't have succeeded.”

It's a subject they don't mention often, but it makes Morgana ask, “And will we?”

“Succeed?” Morgause picks herself up. “Of course we will.”

Morgana doesn't say that she isn't as sure as when they set out, but she does add, “My determination will never falter.”

They continue their ascent, until they come upon the last leg before the top of the mountain. At that height a cave opens out of the rock. It arches inwards, narrowing the deeper it cuts into the cliff, the entrance itself steeped in darkness. 

“It's here,” Morgause says, smelling the air. “The creature is here.”

Morgana flexes her knuckles. “Right so, how do we wake it?”

“We start the ritual, sister.” Morgause moves her legs wider apart and reaches outwards with her arms, her palms spread wide. “We use our powers.”

They start their chant. They incant in low tones that become louder and louder, their voices meshing with the wind, carrying on the air, and ricocheting across the valley below. Black clouds cover the shimmering moon. Inky shadows daub the top of the mountain. The earth rumbles, shakes is small waves, then outright quakes. Morgana at first thinks it's an avalanche. But then a low howl lashes from deep withing the cavern, footsteps thunder, and rocks fall, raining before the entry archway of the cave.

“It's here,” Morgause says as Morgana continues intoning the words of the ancient ritual. “It's awake.”


	3. Arthur

London, 5 December, 201-

 

Arthur frowns, gasps, wakes, and sits up in bed. The room is dark but for the wedge of moonlight filtering in through the window, and the neon blaring of his alarm clock. It reads three in bright red numbers. Right, too early for work, so it's not the notion that he's got to get moving that had him waking. But something did startle him or he wouldn't be up at this point. He can't remember having had any bad dreams and he usually does recollect them even once he's awake. There can't have been any disturbance either. The house is as quiet as the grave, no neighbours partying, no rubbish removal van manoeuvring out of a narrow lane, no street brawls. And yet he woke.

Well, there's nothing for it, Arthur thinks, as he gives his eyes a rub and kicks his blankets off, he'd better do something with his impromptu 'up' time.

He pads downstairs barefoot, crosses the corridor, and, even though he knows it's a bad idea, spares the parlour a glance. There are pine needles scattered around the spot where the tree used to stand. They litter the area together with a mass of sparkly tinsel detritus. It catches the light in the most garish of ways, like some sort of disco-era memento, and Arthur wishes it wasn't there. 

Matthew might have bothered to give the room a swipe before lumbering the whole giant piece of ornamentation into his friend's MPV. Though, on second thoughts, that might perhaps have defeated the purpose. Leaving Arthur's place all immaculate would, as a matter of fact, have spoiled Matthew's objective in taking the tree in the first place, which was sending him a big virtual fuck-you note.

Arthur doesn't mind about the tree, not really. But he wishes they could have stayed civil. At the end of the day he only regrets that their break-up happened on such bitter terms. If Arthur had just learnt how to say, 'look this is not working for me', they might have ended things as friends. Instead, Arthur put up with the status quo and just let things unravel, too busy with work and the ins and outs of his routine to say, “Hey, we should probably call things off here.”

He wanders into the kitchen and flips on the lights, opens the fridge and takes out the milk. He considers taking a glass from the cupboard but that's too much effort, and he ends up drinking from the carton. Once he's taken two hefty sips, he climbs onto a stool and turns on the telly. This late at night, there's almost nothing worth Arthur's time on; he settles for the news. 

It's a catastrophe. In the few hours since he went asleep there's been a shooting, a burglary that ended in murder, and multiple head of states have threatened war. “The world's such a jolly place,” he says, toasting the telly and drinking more milk.

Once he's drained half the carton, he turns off the TV. He puts the milk back in the fridge and goes upstairs. He's still too wired for sleep, too keyed up with a nervous energy that hails from nowhere and plays right under his skin. Instead of turning off the light, he picks up the folder he left on the nightstand. It's the initial case investigation file Miles, the man he must remember to now call boss since his promotion to senior partner, gave to him right before Arthur left the office. Even a cursory preliminary reading tells him there's enough evidence to file a lawsuit. He'll have to locate witnesses and take their statements, gather documents, and fix a date for a second interview with the plaintiff, but he believes he may well have this particular case in the bag. He's thinking up the wording to a draft motion, when his eyes start to close and he drops the folder.

The second time he wakes it's 6.50 and his alarm is sounding. He fumbles for the off-switch, flips it, and, cursing low under his breath, leaves his bed. With snow sitting thick on his windowsill, Arthur has no compunction cranking the hot water tap to the max and showering with it at full-on blast. As he shaves and brushes his teeth, he tunes in the only station that doesn't do holiday songs – he has an especial aversion to Crosby and Bublé – and readies himself for the morning ahead to Jazz classics instead. He has breakfast over Sky News.

He's shaking his umbrella open on his way to the car, when his neighbour, old Mrs Kay, calls out him, “Good morning, Mr Pendragon, and happy holidays.”

“Good morning, Mrs Kay.”

As she smiles benevolently, Mrs Kay's cheeks stand out in their roundness. “And merry Christmas.”

Arthur's mouth thins. “Yes, that too.”

“Aww,” Mrs Kay says, clutching her hand to her chest as if she were deeply wounded, “you still don't like the holidays, do you?”

Arthur doesn't want to expand on how his family Christmases have always been horrible affairs, on how he views the holiday as a purely commercial bid for the average consumer's money, or on how he detests the put-upon good cheer painting itself on the faces of his general acquaintance during the solstice season. He silently curses Mrs Kay's sixth sense about these things and only says, “I'm afraid so.”

“Oh, I really don't get why.” Mrs Kay cocks her head at him then points at the front of her house. On the door hangs a wreath so big and beribboned it covers the entirety of the panels. On her lawn stands a seven-foot-high inflatable snowman (which Arthur thinks devalues his own property by dint of both ugliness and proximity), and above her windows dangle strands of fairy lights already shining red, orange, and blue. “It's the best time of the year.”

Arthur toes the sludge. “Yes, I'm sure, it is, just as it's noted for its marvellous weather.”

Mrs Kay claps her hands together. “Yes, yes it is. There's nothing like snow to make a day perfect. Or that I like quite so well as spending a day indoors with my mug of hot chocolate when it's snowing outside.”

“I'd love to be able to do that too,” Arthur says, glaring at the snowflakes that are starting to come down. “Unfortunately though--” He waves at his car. “--I've got to go to work.”

“Oh, yes, of course, poor dear,” Mrs Kay says, patting his forearm. “I forget abou these things at my age. But do go, do go.”

Arthur has just sunk behind the wheel, briefcase in the back-seat, when his phone rings. A glance at the display tells him it's his boss. “Pendragon,” Arthur answers, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “Yes, sir, the brief will be ready by Friday at the latest. Yes, sir, I'm already on it.”

By the time Arthur turns the engine on, he's already got the first dressing down of the day. Snow is coming down so thick he can't see where he's meant to be going, and a cat jumps on his bonnet, looking like it has no intention of removing itself from the vicinity of his car. When 'It's Beginning to Look a lot like Christmas' comes on the radio, he kills the apparatus with a wild stabbing of the buttons. “I can't wait for this bloody season to be over,” he says, as he inches out of his driveway. “Fuck Christmas.”


	4. In the Great Hall

Merlin puts the pen down, blows on the page so the ink will dry, and stands. With a wave of his hand he snuffs the candles burning on the mantelpiece, table, and window sill. When the excess lights are out, he puts on his tunic, two scarves, one red and one green, and leaves his cottage.

On the way to the grand hall, he passes a group of skating elves. They're going in circles across the frozen surface of Christmas Lake, their coattails flapping in the wind, their cheeks rosy from the effort. Merlin waves and they respond. He's so busy flailing his hands in a parting salute that he nearly walks into one of the snowmen that line the path.

“Watch out,” Gwen calls out.

Merlin swerves at the very last second and smiles sheepishly, patting the snowman he so nearly missed.

Gwen bounds over and threads her arm through his. “Good save.”

“Thanks to you,” Merlin says, before his face falls in on itself. “Small wonder Santa doesn't trust me with the Great Run. Clumsy as I am, I'd be sure to drop all the presents into the crater of a flaming volcano rather than down a chimney.”

Gwen rubs his arm. “Oh, don't be so hard on yourself. You're not that clumsy. Only a little bit.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Merlin knows Gwen is only trying to be kind. As a reindeer nurse, she has helpfulness stamped on her heart and a tendency to soothe everyone. “I know.”

“But aren't you excited?” she asks him as they cross the bridge leading towards the centre of the Santa Village. Tonight it sparkles blue, fiery with moonshine and fairy dust. “Christmas is near.”

“Well, yes.” Merlin'd be more chuffed if he was to take part in the delivery, but that's not to be and he's aware that you can't have everything you wish for. That's something that as letter indexer he's learnt quite well. Yet he's made sure all the children whose missives he's sorted will have what they want. And that counts for something and warms him from the heart outwards. “A fair bit.”

“I am too,” Gwen tells him, as she waves at the other elves they meet on the road. The carter is fixing Santa's sledge and the blacksmith is modifying the harness the reindeer will use. “I'm really looking forward to going through the last few weeks of agility training with Rudolf and the others.”

“Right.”

“And we've got to work on their navigation techniques.” Gwen puts a finger up in the air and continues explaining. “Last year they almost didn't make all deliveries because Prancer got a bit lost over Australia.”

“I'm sure negotiating deserts must be hard.”

“Oh no.” Gwen shakes her head. “It was Sydney's lights that threw him.”

They're still chattering when they make it into the great hall. Thirty long tables stand one next to the other, in a grid pattern. Perpendicularly to them is the high dais, which Santa presides. Behind him squats the fireplace where the Yule log burns all year round. By the time Merlin and Gwen find their seats, serving elves are already pouring in, carrying trays on which balance pots that smell suspiciously like...

“Lichen soup,” Mordred says, making a face before taking a hefty pull of mead.

“I'm afraid you're right.” Merlin doesn't blame the village for going vegetarian. He supports the motion. Once you get friendly with the reindeer, and they all have, that's it. You can't bring yourself to even think of them as anything other than trusty companions. And besides a few fluffy sheep that's all they have in the way of farm animals. He just wishes there was more variety in their menus. “It looks like that's it.”

“Let's hope at least there's at least chocolate suet for dessert.”

The soup is in everybody's plate when Santa rises, wooden cup in hand. “My dear elves,” he says, “we gather once again for dinner. On this night like on every other night I would like to spare a thought for our mission, which is one of joy and love.” A murmur of approval rises to meet Santa's words and Santa acknowledges it with a smile. “As the Great Run approaches, we must make ourselves busy so that children all over the world--”

The door to the great hall flies open and a security elf, recognisable by his badge of office, stumbles in. “Santa, we have an emergency.”

Voices rise in alarm and Santa hushes them with a raised hand. “What is the nature of this emergency?”

“The great evil has been released.”

Elves gasp in fear and shock. Merlin sees the faces of his fellow diners blanch.

Santa says, “And you're positive?”

“Yes.” The security elf stands taller, his rank sash catching the light. “We registered the spell that released the Krampus with our newest equipment. We could measure its stirrings and track the moment it was unleashed.”

“We're all doomed,” Freya says from downtable. 

Other elves voice their agreement, talking one on top of the other. Even Mordred, who usually keeps his calm, looks pinched in the face. 

“We must stay calm,” Santa says from his dais. He looks at all the elves present in turn, his face firmly set, his lips compressed, though his gaze is benign. Merlin feels calm ooze from him and soothe his own rather frayed nerves. “We don't know what sort of plot is afoot, but we'll stop it.”

“I have reason to believe.” The security elf dabs at his forehead with a red handkerchief. “That witches may be involved.”

Santa's mouth curls downwards. “Ah, witches. I've never understood why they hate Christmas so.”

“Indeed, it was witches.” The security elf sighs and shakes his head. “We've lost track of Morgause last July when she left her house in the woods. Goneril has also gone missing. Right before she did, she messaged another witch by raven. We couldn't intercept the raven in question, but we do know some other powerful caster is involved. We must assume they mean to stop the Great Run.”

“This is bad news,” Mordred murmurs in Merlin's ear. “Terrible news.”

“We must--” Santa commands attention again. “--come up with a plan to foil the witches' attempts.”

“If they do intend to ruin Christmas,” Santa's second in command says, “then there's no other solution but to find the chosen warrior.”

“But when was the last one even born?” someone asks from the furthest corner of the hall. 

Someone else answers, their voice doom-laden. “In the seventeenth century.”

“What reason have we to believe another warrior is around in this day and age?” Cedric, the rubbish collection elf, says. “Adults no longer believe in Christmas and you've got to have faith in the magic of good deeds to be the Warrior.”

“But surely many adults out there still believe in magic.” Gwen stands up to speak. “We must be confident that there are.”

The elf who'd spoken before chimes up. “While there are some adults who enjoy Christmas and believe in its spirit, it doesn't follow that they are our Chosen Warrior. We must allow there's a chance a new one may not have been born at all.”

“The Warrior has risen,” Santa says, sticking his belly out. “Our mission is to find him so we can battle the witches on an even footing.”

“But how shall we find him?” Mordred asks, meeting everyone's gaze and winging up an eyebrow. “How can we track him in time?”

“Or her.” Gwen shrugs and smiles.

“Or her.” Mordred mouths a sorry to Gwen.

“You will all go looking.” Santa's gaze lights up with determination and the Yule log behind him burns brighter. “Scatter across the earth and search for the Warrior.”

“And how will we know we have found him?” Freya asks.

Santa's voice mellows when he says. “You'll know in your hearts of hearts. The magic in you will flare and that'll tell you.”

“But only the most powerful elves have that much magic,” Cedric says, “the game will be rigged to their advantage.”

Santa frowns. “This is no game, Cedric. This is a quest. We'll all do our part. You'll all go out and search the earth for the Warrior. It doesn't matter who finds him. Only that he's found.”

Clapping rises from the ranks of elves. Everybody, the clerks, the Great Run helpers, Santa's council all burst into applause.

Santa steps down from the dais. “Gather round oh ye winter elves, it's time for me to assign to each of you your specific mission.”

All elves stand in one body.

As he, too, comes to his feet, Merlin feels his magic swirl with the notion he's to be set on a quest. This is the chance he's been waiting for; the opportunity of a lifetime. The moment has come for him to lend a hand, make himself useful out there. He spares a thought for the wider world and is speared by an suppresible sense of awe for it, the beauty, diversity, and love in it. He's sure there's still enough magic out there to have made the rise of the Warrior possible. He has faith in that. And maybe he won't be the one to find him, but he'll certainly scour the earth for him, and assist whoever truly chances upon them. He'll do his part and, like a good elf, he'll help protect the Christmas season.


	5. The Snapping of Chains

Schneeberg hut, Bad Gastein valley, Austria, 7 December, 201- 

 

The creature isn't like anything Morgana imagined. With its eight feet, it's taller than she'd fancied it would be, more massive. Its horns look nothing like animal horns. They're crooked and twisting, bigger than any antler Morgana's ever seen. They have nothing in common with the specimens mounted on the walls; that's certain. They graze the ceiling's rafters and work markings in the wood. Its fur is thick and rough and caked with dirt and blood so old it's blackened. It smells like death too, much like the creature's breath. 

Before Morgause can incant the spell that will cut its chains, Morgana says, “Are you sure we can control it?”

Morgause drops her hands and her fighting stance. “Of course. Witches are the creature's natural allies.”

Morgana looks at the demon. It's snarling and gnashing its jaws. It's foaming at the mouth and lashing about. It doesn't look like a creature of intellect at all. It's surely sentient and appears to be suffering from the pressure of the chains on its wrists, but Morgana isn't certain it can understand what's truly going on. For that matter she doubts it can hold any loyalties or stick to them. Even so this – it – is part of their plan and they have no other to fall back on. “Go ahead, if you must.”

With a widening of the legs and a straightening of the spine, Morgause starts chanting. Her eyes glow red and as they do a storm picks up. Thunder crashes and lightning rains down from the heavens, flashing behind the snow-fogged windows and brightening the semi-empty room in shocks of white.

The creature throws its head back and howls. It's still ululating, when it forces its arms apart and breaks the chains. 

They clatter to the ground.

Eyes still aglow, Morgause kneels. “Welcome back, Krampus.”

The Krampus roars, the sound filling their hut, echoing outside, and ricocheting off mountain walls and whistling through crags and narrow passes.

“It's begun,” Morgana says, and though she's addressing Morgause she's also reminding herself. “It's truly begun.”


	6. The Quest for the Warrior (Gwen)

Place Vendome, Paris, 10 December, 201- 

 

The woman has just exited a jeweller's and is crossing the length of Vendome Square, a poodle on her leash, when Gwen starts following her. The woman walks with her head high, her dog trotting happily at her side, barking short barks at moving objects and other passers-by. In spite of how yip-happy it is, Gwen can tell that's a happy dog. The woman herself glows with the colours of the rainbows. Her aura is a beautiful array of golds and diamond silvers, speckled through with a lovely comforting red. 

That must be it, Gwen tells herself. She's scarcely ever seen such brightness in a human. Most assuredly, she's never brushed so close to it. Dropping her invisibility, she trails the woman down the street, moving southwards towards a broader avenue. In spite of her heels, the woman walks at a quick pace and Gwen has to trot to keep up. When the dog slows though, either to sniff at a bush or to pee, Gwen has to slow and hide in entryways or behind wheelie bins. 

The woman, thankfully, doesn't notice. Rather she enters a chocolate shop and stays inside for the longest time. From outside Gwen can see her point at this or that confection, while the attendant weighs her purchases and fleets about behind the display case.

As she waits for the woman to be done with her purchases, Gwen perches on a bench, pulls her fair-isle knitting out of her bag, and finishes a new row. When the lady fails to re-emerge, Gwen twiddles her thumbs, toys with her length of yarn, and whistles Silent Night. The song over, the woman is still inside. By the time the woman exits the shop, several colourful, beribboned packages sticking out of the bag hanging from her arm, Gwen has almost finished an entire snowflakes section.

“Ah, Christmas shopping,” Gwen says under her breath, “that always takes time.” 

In a way witnessing mortals as they go about their Christmas shopping makes Gwen's heart glad because they are, in their own way, spreading the cheer and taking on Santa's mantle. It doesn't matter what kind of present they go for, or how much they spend. It might be very little. Or a tidy bit more. What really is important is their intent to share their love. “And you're doing just that,” Gwen says, silently addressing her mark. “Yes, you are, aren't you?” 

Gwen quickly stuffs her knitting back into her bag and jumps upright.

The woman is making for the park. As she pushes the gate open, the dog barks, and gnaws on her shoe. She picks it up and gives its head a pat. She's ambled along quite a few of the park's by-lanes, when she seats herself on a bench.

Seeing her chance, Gwen plonks down next to her. 

The woman is toying with her phone, smiling at the screen, when Gwen mutters a spell and her bag topples off the seat. The contents – her knitting, candy-canes, and several elf outfit buttons – scatter on the ground. 

“Oh,” the woman says, crouching down to retrieve the items, “you've spilled your things.”

As the woman hands Gwen the largest of the candy-canes, one that comes with a large ribbon wrapped around the base of the loop, their hands brush.

The woman smiles and says something, but Gwen's mouth droops. “Oh,” she says, “thank you.”

The woman asks, “Are you missing something?” She grins helpfully. “Perhaps, it's rolled under the bench or into the bushes?”

“No.” Gwen shakes her head and makes an effort to appear cheery and grateful. “What I'm looking for is not here.”

The woman cocks her head to the side, a frown indenting the space between her eyes. “Well, if you're sure you're not missing anything.” She hands Gwen the rest of her things. “”There, I think that's all.”

Gwen fastens the strings of her bag and says, “Thank you all the same, you know. And may the Spirit of Christmas reward you.”

The woman looks at Gwen as though she's sprouted reindeer antlers, then resumes her seat in silence.

Shoulders down, Gwen walks away. “Perhaps the next one will be it.”


	7. The Quest for the Warrior (Mordred)

Santiago, Chile, 11 December, 201-

 

Mordred's mark is perfect. He's the coach of a football team entirely made up of disadvantaged children, donates blood every month, and helps old ladies onto buses. If that were not enough, he has a squad of puppies that he saved right off the street. Local legend has it he found them in a box in a scrapyard and didn't hesitate a second before hauling all of them home. There are seven of them, which he walks and coddles at least six times a day. To round off the good guy points, he always listens to people and never says a cross word to anyone. Mordred's observed him for the past two days and not a curse word has passed his lips, let alone an uncharitable thought.

Right, he might not look particularly athletic, nor does he fit Mordred's idea of a warrior. With his shortness, paunch, and overall lack of visible muscle, he doesn't quite cut the figure. But, Mordred, wagers, if you're the Chosen Warrior that mustn't matter so much. A lot of it comes from the heart, doesn't it, and, if worst comes to worst, they could always teach him a few martial arts moves. Plenty of elves have mastered those techniques and they could maybe give Mordred's mark a crash course.

Braced by these thoughts, Mordred enters the garden his mark's working in. It's in the back of the house and very well tended. The soil is moist, springy, and several shrubs and flowers grow in full splendour. The man is raking an empty flowerbed, turning the earth, a bag of seeds at his feet, when Mordred strolls into the property.

He's made sure to look like most twenty-first century humans. In approaching mortals, most elves make the mistake of not conforming to their customs. They persist in wearing elf-inspired outfits and talking about things human just do not understand, thus causing a lot of perplexity and giving rise to a vast number of legends. (Coca Cola has done the rest.) Mordred knows better. He's wearing a bomber jacket, combat books, and a white shirt that peeks out from under his outerwear. All completely standard as far as humans are concerned. Camouflage, Mordred's quite good at this. 

“Hello,” Mordred says, stepping closer to the man with a map in his hand. “I was walking right by and I'm afraid I got lost.”

The man says, “We're quite a way away from any place a tourist might get lost in.”

“Yes, well,” Mordred says, shuffling his feet and ruffling his own hair. “I'm very good at getting off track.”

The man lumbers closer. “Let me see what I can do.”

Mordred smiles and passes the man the map. The touch sparks a sensation within Mordred. It's bright and pleasing, a little bushfire of all things nice, but it's not the feeling he was looking for.

As the man explains to him how to get to a place he has no intention of ever seeing, Mordred's hopes flounder. For the first time since Santa asked them to go looking for the Chosen Warrior, Mordred starts believing they won't find him. If such a good man as Mordred's mark is not it, then who could it be? Maybe, after all, in this day and age there's no warrior because the concept itself has become outmoded? But if that's the case, what then?

“Thank you,” Mordred says, when the man's finished explaining. “You were very helpful.”

“You're welcome.” The man smiles. “And watch out next time!”

“Will do!”

The search starts again.


	8. The Quest for the Warrior (Merlin)

London, UK, 12 December 201-

Merlin knocks on the door. He doesn't know why he's chosen this one. This particular door is undecorated. No wreath ornaments it, no ribbon marks it and no mistletoe twig hangs from it. Unlike its neighbours, it's utterly devoid of any sign of all things Christmassy. By all rights Merlin should feel no inclination to make contact with this house's occupants. On the contrary, he should feel ill at ease and as little at home as feasibly possible. He should by all means betake himself to the house next to this one, the one that's glowing harder than the whole Santa village, and try his luck there. It would make sense.

But the truth is Merlin's hands are itching and his magic is doing funny things, flip-flopping in his belly and making him glow. Obviously Merlin's be-spelled himself to look as normal as possible, but that doesn't erase the fact that the magic within him is acting up. It must be a good portent, mustn't it?

Merlin has no time to ponder that because noises start in the house, meaning it's not empty. 

The door opens, revealing a blond man wearing suit and tie, albeit a loosened one. His hair is up on end and he's got puffy bags under his eyes. “Look, if you want a donation, you can have a cheque--”

“No, I--” Merlin starts to say, but then he flounders a bit because this is hard to explain. 

He shouldn't have shown any hesitation, because the man interrupts him. “Look,” he says, “I'm not going to attend your group meetings and I'm not going to make time for whatever class of citizen you're protecting.” The man sighs and his shoulders go down. “I've no time for that. Lawyer. Busy. So if you want a donation, I suggest you accept that cheque.”

“What makes you think I want one?” Merlin must have gone dreadfully wrong somewhere, not that the man's let him speak, but he's pretty sure he's made a few mistakes here. If he could just get which. “Uh?”

“You're dressed like one of those charity persons.” The man's eyes narrow. “Don't tell me you're not a charity person?”

As he considers the question, Merlin hums. It's fair to say that Santa does operate in a way that is somewhat similar to that of charities. He does give children presents for free with a special eye for kids in need. But he otherwise gifts everyone something and the points in common aren't that many. “Um, well, I'm not sure I could call myself a charity person.”

“The question begs itself.” The man's expression becomes sharper, more severe. “What are you exactly?”

Merlin beams. He likes direct questions he can answer without having to do much in-depth thinking. “An elf. Santa's elf.”

The door slams in Merlin's face.

Oh. Well. Oh. 

Merlin has no idea where he went wrong, but he must have said something inappropriate. Never mind that. He must do something to reconnect with the door slammer. For one because that was rather rude and the man ought to apologise to him. For another Merlin hasn't had a chance to establish whether his target is the Warrior or not.

Merlin rings the bell.

The man's voice sounds from somewhere inside the house. “Not inviting madmen in. Sod off or I'll call 999.”

“But I'm really an elf,” Merlin tells the closed door. “I swear I'm not posturing. I'm a true blue elf and none of those cheap imitations.” During his quest to find the Warrior, Merlin's run into plenty of fake elves in shopping centres. Even kerbside sometimes. The experience itself was quite disconcerting especially since, at first, Merlin had thought he'd stumbled into North Pole compatriots. “I'm the real deal.”

“Oh my God,” the man says from safely within his house. “The bloke's lost all his marbles.”

Merlin can't let that stand. He's certifiably healthy, both mentally and physically. The best elf wisemen can testify to it. “I swear I'm completely sane.”

In a louder voice than before the man says, “Look, bugger off, will you! Off my lawn. Shoo! And check yourself into some nice mental institution.”

“But--” How is Merlin supposed to carry out his quest if he doesn't get to see the man once again? “No, what, no!”

“Look, I've got work to do, plenty of, and if I don't finish it, my boss will bugger me. Just go away and let me finish my brief in peace. Just go!”

Merlin goggles. That seems rather horrible. Bosses shouldn't make unwanted advances on their underlings, physically molest them. “I'm sure your mortal laws are against that. If you sue...” Merlin doesn't remember who exactly governs Britain – the last time he passed by it was a young slip of a girl called Victoria, just eighteen and newly crowned – but he's sure that whatever the power presiding over the country, it will put a stop to the harassment. “I'm fairly certain all that will end.”

The man in the house moans. “For the love of God, bugger off. I'll pay you to.”

Merlin says, “Actually elves never want money. Treats on the other hand..”

A string of curse words sounds from inside the house: then footsteps thunder. Since the noise is getting more and more muffled, Merlin surmises that the person he's been talking to has removed himself from the vicinity of the door.

Well, that didn't go well. But that can't be the end of his dealings with the rather gruff man. Merlin must do something about his powers of persuasion, true, but that doesn't mean he oughtn't pursue this. It's his job. And he's a good elf. At letter transcribing mostly, but he can do well in this area too. He can help save Christmas. To that end, he won't leave any stone unturned.

Muttering under his breath, he walks round the house until he comes to a garden wall. It's overgrown with ivy and not very high, especially where a green door opens at its the back. Merlin puts a foot on the wooden partition, levers himself up and vaults over so he lands on the other side. The garden is neat. There's no rubbish and no dead leaves clutter the path. But, like on the other side, there are no decorations, not the tiniest twinkling star, not the smallest bit of tinsel or the most throwaway of Santa likenesses. 

This doesn't bode well. However, Merlin makes himself be bold. He throws his chest out and marches to the door. It happens to be open so Merlin gives it a nudge and enters the house. “Hello,” he calls out. “I'm Merlin the elf. The one from before. You were rather rude shutting the door on my face. I only--”

The man walks into the kitchen with wide eyes and a phone in his hand. “You again!” He shakes his head. “I realise you're a madman, but this is trespassing. If you don't vacate the premises this instant I'm going to call--” He lifts the phone to his ear. “--the police.”

Merlin holds up his hands. “No, wait, just listen a second, will you! I have to carry out a little experiment so I can know whether you're the Christmas Warrior or not.”

The man pushes a button and says into the phone, “Yes, constabulary? Arthur Pendragon here. I live in Lampard Grove and I have a trespasser on my property.” Arthur hums a little and gives Merlin a once over. “No, he's not violent at the moment, but he's barking mad.”

Merlin stomps his foot, blows air past his lips, and reaches out with his hand. He closes his fist in a snap and the phone emits wisps of smoke and a loud mechanical wail.

Arthur drops it and curses. “What the hell?”

“Oh, cursing is such bad form.” Merlin sighs out loud. “We don't encourage it at the Santa Village.”

“I have another phone,” Arthur says, stabbing the air with a finger he points at Merlin. “I can use that one.”

“You're really one recalcitrant dollophead,” Merlin says. “Look, I'll show you. Then maybe you'll believe me.”

Arthur splutters, clearly starting on another rant, but stops the moment Merlin makes fairy lights dance around him. 

“Satisfied I'm an elf now?” Merlin hopes he's not acting counter to Santa's wishes in revealing his powers to this mortal. But this, he wagers, is the only way to bring such a stubborn blockhead like Arthur round. “Uh?”

“No.” Arthur sinks onto a stool. He nearly misses and has to scrabble to keep seated. “On the other hand I'm fairly positive I've lost my mind.”

“You haven't,” Merlin says, taking a hesitant step forward. He makes his voice soft and smooth, hoping he won't spook Arthur more. “What you saw, it's all really real.”

“No.” Arthur looks at him out of huge eyes. “No, Santa doesn't exist. At least what people think of as Santa doesn't. He was just a fourth century Middle Eastern bishop people have turned into a symbol of winter consumerism.”

“I'm with you on people mistaking him for things he's not.” Merlin doesn't appreciate the modern world's view of Santa. Merlin's boss has indeed been exploited, turned into the mouthpiece for a kind of materialism he's never stood for. “But that doesn't mean he isn't real.”

Arthur stands up straighter. “So you think a rotund, portly gentleman...”

“Hey.” Merlin holds a cautionary finger up. “No digs on Santa's weight.”

“Goes about giving gifts to people out of the goodness of his heart?” Arthur wags his head from side to side. “It's absurd. It's not economically sustainable and how long has this been going on? Centuries? If Santa's one person, and not a replaceable office holder, he'd have to be immortal. And we all know how that's utterly impossible.”

“Wow,” Merlin says, going just a little bug-eyed at how fast Arthur's talked. “That's quite a dry view of the world.”

“But the only one that makes sense.” Arthur flexes his shoulders backwards, squaring himself against critique.

Merlin is in for this fight. “No. It's not the only one that does. Magic. Magic explains it all.”

“Magic belongs in fairy tales.”

“No, it does not.” Merlin gesticulates a notch wildly. “The whole world breathes and feeds on magic.”

Arthur laughs. It's not a genuine laugh, loud and staccato as it is. “No way. No. Magic doesn't exist. Science can explain everything and since it can't possibly explain Santa Claus, then it follows the red devil doesn't--”

Merlin makes smoke reindeer dance around his head.

“You did that already.” Arthur passes a hand down his face. “And the only explanation for that is that you're a product of my imagination and that I'm going bonkers.”

“You're not going bonkers.”

“It must be because of the stress,” Arthur says, talking under his breath, as if this is a conversation he's having with himself. “Overwork. That's what it is. I'm going to check myself into a nice clinic and spend a week in a comfortable padded room with as little outside stimuli as possible. That ought to sort me out.”

At that Merlin's heart wrenches hard. This is all his fault. He should have gone easier on Arthur; should have persuaded him more gently. No wonder Santa won't let him on the Great Run. He's too stupid an elf. Too emotional, too rash. He should have thought this through. Silly, Merlin! He will have to find time for self-pity later though, because Arthur needs him right about now. “No, what no! You're fine. You're absolutely fine.” Merlin strides over to Arthur. “I bollocksed things up.” He clamps a hand over his mouth, makes big eyes, splutters, then starts again. “I shouldn't have done magic without preparing you.”

Arthur starts walking away. “I really need to find myself a good psychiatrist.”

“Wait--” Merlin dives and grabs Arthur by the arm and the moment he does is the moment his magic burns bright. It scorches him through and through, lights him up like a Christmas tree. “You, you're it.”

Arthur turns sharply round and his eyes get very big. “You – you're glowing.”

“That's because you're the Chosen Warrior.”

“The chosen what?”

“The Chosen Warrior.” Merlin flails a bit as he says this. He can't believe he's found him on his first try! “The person meant to save Christmas.”

Arthur smacks a hand across his face. “I'm really ill, aren't I?”

“No.” Merlin shakes his head and puts his hands on Arthur's shoulders. “You're not ill at all. You're just a very special person.”

“That's it,” Arthur says, sagging against Merlin. “I'm having literal delusions of grandeur.”

Merlin doesn't know how to make Arthur believe. He really doesn't understand how someone can be so sceptic as to be readier to entertain the notion they're crazy rather than admit that magic – wonder – exists. So Merlin pinches Arthur. “There, a hallucination can't pinch you, can it?”

Arthur blinks. “No, well, no.”

“So now you do believe I'm real?”

“I don't know.”

Merlin glares.

“Let's admit I do believe you're there,” Arthur says, taking a step backwards. “It doesn't follow you're an elf.”

“So what am I?” Merlin makes himself invisible. He oughtn't know how to do this since he's never taken part in the Great Run and has thus never had any need to disappear when humans turn up during a delivery. But he's always instinctively known how to do it without anyone telling him. “Uh, tell me, what am I?”

Arthur searches the room for him. At the present moment he's addressing the wall to Merlin's right. “Okay, all right, as loathe as I am to admit it, you might be an elf.”

Merlin reappears. He smiles broadly too. “Now you're reasoning.”

“No, I'm not!” Arthur makes a face at him. “What I'm wondering is why you manifested to me of all people.”

“I told you.”

“You spouted some claptrap about me being a chosen warrior.” Arthur tips his mouth to the side. “Forgive me if that makes little sense to me.”

“Well, it's like this.” Merlin takes a big breath. “Witches, who are Santa's sworn enemy, have woken a demon called the Krampus. They mean to wreck Christmas. And you've got to stop them.”

Arthur gives a bark of a laugh. “That's ridiculous. You've got the wrong person. I'm a lawyer.”

“No.”

“I can show you the paperwork that says so.”

Merlin presses his lips together. “That's now what I meant. You may be a lawyer, but you're also the Chosen Warrior.”

“Look.” Arthur starts pacing, but keeps him in sight. “Even if the story about the witches and the cramps--”

“Krampus,” Merlin says, because there's something inherently wrong in mispronouncing the name of a demon.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Even if the story about the Krampus is true, I wouldn't know what to do about it. I can't help.”

“You can.” Merlin lets his faith in Arthur shine outwards. He's afraid he's glowing a bit. “You're the only one who can.”

Arthur takes in a big breath. “Look, thank you for the vote of confidence, but--”

Merlin holds up a hand. “Please, listen to me, Arthur.” He waits till he gets a nod from him. “This may seem all a little strange to you, but it's real. And the truth is if you don't do it, nobody else will.”

Arthur swallows. “Nobody?”

“You were born to do it.” Merlin can feel it. Arthur's soul radiates a warmth that expands outwards. It's strange he should seem so unaware, but weirder things have happened, especially when it comes to humans. “Nobody else can replace you. Now you'll think Christmas is small chips.”

Arthur harrumphs. “Well, yes.”

“But it isn't.” Merlin is made of the spirit of Christmas, so he doesn't quite understand how someone may find it unimportant, but mankind is strange, so he'll clear this up. “There's more to it than gifts, their delivery and the Great Run itself.” Though Merlin wants to be on it, he knows about the rest, the other things that matter. He lives and breathes them. “It's about love and light. Good will. And without Christmas Magic – without Santa – all of of that would disappear.”

“Look, elf--”

“Merlin.”

“Merlin.” Arthur bobs his head. “I'm not even religious so...”

“It's not about religion.” Merlin's bound to none and neither is Santa. “Santa doesn't subscribe to any. He's just a spirit of love and peace. That's what you'd be protecting.”

“And without me it doesn't stand a chance.”

Merlin doesn't want Arthur to think he has no other choice but to offer his services. He'd love it if he could embrace the cause on his own. But he can't lie either. (Well, he technically can, but he doesn't enjoy doing it.) “A very tiny chance.” Merlin makes a corresponding hand sign. “We'll all fight for Santa.” Merlin would lay down his life for him and is positive many other elves would too. “But you're imbued with the spirit of--”

“Let me guess.” Arthur smiles and it's the first genuine one he flashes Merlin. “Of Christmas.”

“Of goodness,” Merlin says, looking heavenwards. “And it would truly help if you could--”

Merlin would really like to finish that sentence, but a blinding pain cuts through him, and he doubles over. 

“Merlin,” Arthur says, placing his hand wide on his back. “Merlin, are you all right?”

Merlin can't answer. He can only grit his teeth, and not let the agony he's experiencing have the better of him. But in spite of all his attempts to keep it in check, the burning sensation that eats at his heart surges, and the world blackens at the edges.

“Merlin,” Arthur shakes him. “Merlin.”

Merlin sinks into the darkness.


	9. Mayhem in Bad Gastein

Bad Gastein, Austria, 12 December, 201-

 

The village is small, made up of a handful of streets that meet in a square at whose centre a fountain stands. It ripples with water, the marble shaped into nymphs sitting at the foot of rearing horses. The town hall, a square three-storey building with mullioned windows, colonnaded walkways, a painted façade on which dragons battle, and a bell tower, looks positively mediaeval. At its base and in the plaza surrounding it, tents and stalls offer their wares. They look like tiny mountain huts and have striped awnings the colour of candy canes. They brim with merchandise, which lies on counters, grills and hangs from rafters. The air is thick with the smell of roasted chestnuts and almonds, sweetmeats, and sausage.

“I positively dislike Christmas markets,” Morgana says, giving herself a shake. “They're greasy, dirty, crowded places.”

“Do not worry, sister,” Morgause tells her. “This one won't stay open for long.”

“Well, I certainly hope so.” This one in particular reminds Morgana of places she has no longer any allegiance to. “I just wish I didn't need to be here for this.”

“I'm afraid you will have to sister.”

Morgana tosses her head and scoffs.

Morgause touches the Krampus and the beast growls. “Go and do your worst.”

Releasing a cloud of dense red vapour, the veil around them dissolves. The people crowding the market stop laughing and chatting. They cease snapping pictures of each other and their festive surroundings, and turn around to look at the Krampus. Someone shouts 'Cool Costume' to the creature and the Krampus growls loud and stomps forward, flinging market patrons in the air with wide swipes of his clawed hands, walking all over tents, destroying everything in its path. 

As the Krampus goes about its business, screams rend the air and panic fills the square. Children cry and reach for their mothers. Mothers pick up their kids and run, cradling their offspring's heads to shield them from the Krampus' attacks. As they seek a path to safety, people converge, bump one into the other. To carve themselves some space, they elbow each other, jostle each other, stampede over the bodies of the fallen.

“There's nothing like a threat to pit people against each other and quash all goodwill,” Morgause says, as she watches the Krampus work its spell. “The Krampus has power over those whose hearts have a potential for blackness. It's an honest beast that way.”

“Or,” Morgana says as she watches the mayhem unfold, “it blackens their hearts with the force of its evil nature till they're all but compelled to act that way.”

The yells grow in pitch. Tents crumple, hut-like constructions collapse, and wares get crunched underfoot. Blood spatters the pavements, painting walls red. The squares empties.

When the screams thin, Morgana says, “As effective as this is --” The Krampus has practically razed down the market. “-- I don't see how this can impact Christmas overall.” Bad Gastein is a small town, after all. “This will be reported in the newspapers, true, but it will end here.”

Morgause smirks. “Oh, Morgana, don't be naive. The Krampus has power, you'll see.”

“Are you sure he has enough?” Morgana says, observing the Krampus as it tears and destroys everything around them. “Are you sure he'll help achieve our broader goals?”

Morgause hums softly, the sound resembling a hiss. “I have faith in the evil nature of mankind. I have faith in the Krampus' ability to awake that evil. But I also have other, vaster plans.”

“Have you?” Morgana's voice thankfully covers the last of the pleas for help coming from the scattering market goers. “Truly?”

“Indeed, sister, this is only an appetiser,” Morgause says, her eyebrow climbing. “This is the first battle in a much bigger war.”


	10. Of Sandwiches and Decisions

For lack of anything better to do, Arthur lays the unconscious Merlin on the sofa and places a blanket over him. Before stepping away, he takes his pulse and makes sure he's breathing. Merlin's heart rate is steady and his lungs fill and empty satisfactorily. Sure that Merlin isn't dying on him in the very immediate future, Arthur steps back and reviews his options. He could call the police. Merlin has, after all, trespassed. Better yet he could call an ambulance and make sure Merlin is given all the care he needs. He even picks up the phone and starts dialling emergency services but hangs before he's put through.

Phone still in hand, he takes a good look at Merlin. He's sleeping – or doing something very much like it – mouth slightly agape, head lolling backwards. But for the small frown stamped on his brow, he appears at peace and mostly harmless. 

Arthur puts the phone back in its cradle. 

“So do I believe you?” he asks of the recumbent Merlin. “You do look a bit otherworldly.” There's a general air of innocence about Merlin's soft features, about his eyes – the more so when he's awake and looking guilelessly at you – and mouth. And he does appear to be a little out of touch with current trends and normal habits. Arthur knows no one – at least no one that young – who favours seasonal jumpers and hand-knitted scarves. “But all of that doesn't mean you're an--” 

There, he can't even bring himself to say it, let alone put any faith in it. Still, that doesn't mean he shouldn't help the poor sod. Elf or no, nobody faints point blank, not unless something's seriously the matter with them. If Merlin's not well, Arthur owes him his help. Arthur eyes the phone again. He's reaching for it, when he drops his hand. 

He goes to the kitchen instead. He puts the kettle on and makes a sandwich, one that is thick with ham, cucumbers, cheese and is slathered in a lot of butter. As the kettle starts whistling, Arthur makes a detour to the bathroom. He opens the cabinet and spills two aspirin tablets onto his palm.

By the time Arthur goes back to the living room with a tray in hand, Merlin has awakened.

“What is that?” he asks, blinking at the food Arthur's carried in. 

“Nourishment.” Arthur shows Merlin the items he put together. 

“That sandwich looks a bit revolting.” Merlin has the guts to make a face at it. “It's dripping with lard.”

“One, that's not lard but butter.” Arthur doesn't really know how someone can mistake one for the other, but apparently Merlin is a food ignoramus. “Secondly, you're so skinny you clearly fainted from a lack of nutrients. So I thought I'd give you something that packed quite a few calories.”

Merlin wrests the blanket off him and jumps upright. “I'll have you know I'm not skinny. I'm wiry. And more importantly I didn't faint.” He's so pale his wanness belies his words. “Something must have happened and I felt the echo of it.”

“You felt the echo.” Arthur is starting to rethink things. It's not him who's going bonkers, it's Merlin. “And why did an echo have you doubling over?”

“It wasn't an ordinary echo,” Merlin says. “It was the aftershock of an attack on Christmas.”

“There you go again.” Arthur says dropping his tray on the table. The cucumbers that were in the sandwich spill out. “With this elf spiel.”

“Look, something terrible must have gone down for me to feel that way.” Merlin's face is so earnest it could melt hearts. “I must get in touch with the North Pole.”

“The North Pole.” Arthur looks away, his lips pressed together, his hands going to his hips. “Right.”

“Yeah.” Merlin nods quickly. “I must get in touch and learn what's going on. Get new orders and tell Santa about you.”

Air punches out of Arthur's lungs in one quick rattle. “Do I have to tell you?” Apparently, Arthur does, because Merlin still looks positively convinced of what he's saying, this elf story of his. When it's contradicted, he brims with indignation, mouth pinched, fists balled, brow furrowed. “Men don't live in the North Pole. I mean there might be people out there – part of scientific expeditions. But nobody casually dwells there!”

“You're so mistaken!” Merlin says. “So very off track.”

“I can show you some documentaries!” Arthur has not subscribed to National Geographic for nothing. “They'll tell you there's no such thing as a stable Arctic population.”

Merlin throws his hands up in the air. “You're really stubborn, aren't you!”

“Just do me a favour and eat!” Perhaps if he's eating Merlin's mouth will be too full and he won't be able to spout any more nonsense. 

Merlin glares but picks up one of Arthur's sandwiches and tries it. “Not too bad for the monstrosity that it is.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says, turning on the TV so he won't have to listen to Merlin's munching. He's doing so onboxiously loud and Arthur suspects it's on purpose. Ignoring it, Arthur tunes into the news. After a report on Cameron's stance concerning the EU, a journalist breaks the news of an attack on a Christmas market in Austria. Footage of the destruction flashes on the screen in a quick montage. Ripped canvas flutters in the wind. Blood spatters streak the asphalt. “Oh my God.”

Merlin drops his sandwich. “I told you there had been an attack on Christmas.”

Arthur looks from the television to Merlin. Can it be possible? Can the man currently in his living room have had actual foreknowledge of the Austrian tragedy? And if he had, if there's a link between him and the spirit of Christmas, can he truly be an elf? “Oh my God.” Arthur's legs give and he plonks on the coffee table. “Oh my God, you're...”

“An elf,” Merlin says, sticking his chest out. “You believe me now?”

“And--” Arthur flails his hands about. “If I said I wanted to help...” He strikes his own chest. “Would that stop things like that from happening again?”

“Yes.” Merlin nods his head firmly. “You've a big destiny, Arthur.”

Arthur's always has always held that destiny isn't a thing, that people make their own paths in life. But all that has happened today has truly shaken his beliefs. There's a smiling man in his living room who has confidence in Arthur and he may be an elf or he may not, but his trust has to be worth something. “All right.” He stands. “If you're really an elf, take me to...” He bites his lip before saying it, because it sounds fairly absurd to his own ears. “Take me to Santa and I'll pledge myself to him.”

Merlin's lips stretch into a broad smile.


	11. Two Elves Walk in a Bar

Mordred climbs onto the bar stool and in his best Russian says, “A vodka, please.”

He shouldn't be drinking outright vodka. Elves at most usually indulge in hefty doses of mulled wine, but the occasion really calls for it. The occasion really calls for a more powerful punch.

“Ice?” asks the bartender as he slides the drink over to him.

“No.” Mordred grabs his glass. “I'll drink this neat.”

The bartender raises an eyebrow. “Love woes?”

Mordred wishes. “Problems on the job.”

The bartender grimaces. “No fucking job is worth that much heartache, man.” 

“This one is,” Mordred says, taking his first bracing sip of vodka. “This one is.”

He's been nursing his drink a few minutes, when someone sinks into the seat next to him. “You didn't find the warrior either, did you?”

Mordred turns and claps eyes on Gwen. She looks dishevelled, her pony tail drooping, her scarf tangled. Not at all the trim Gwen he's used to. “You neither, did you?”

“No.” Gwen exhales. “I thought I had her but she was only an ordinary lady.”

“Same.” Mordred tips his glass in Gwen's direction. “Lovely guy, should really suggest he get a loadful of presents this year, but he was not the warrior.”

Gwen orders herself a drink, the same as Mordred, and says, “So what now?”

“We start again,” Mordred says. “From scratch.”

“But will we make it in time for Christmas?”

“We must.” Mordred grinds his teeth. “Or there will be no more Christmas.”

They're debating the wisdom of ordering themselves another drink – they're both favourable – when the news comes on. The images that follow each other on the screen punch the air out of Mordred's lungs and bring tears to Gwen's eyes. 

“It's started,” Gwen says, a hand at her throat. “How can we stop it?”

Mordred stands and pays for their drinks. “I think the time has come for us to report to the North Pole.”

In a blink they've left the premises and are halfway over to the North Pole.


	12. Inside the PM's Cabinet

Private Cabinet of the Prime Minister, A European State, 13 December, 201-

 

The Secretary of State shifts his weight and clears his throat.

The Prime Minister continues reading the document he's been at all morning, turns a page, and adds a note by pen.

The secretary says, “We're not really declaring war, are we?”

The Prime Minister looks up. He takes off his spectacles and cleans them with his handkerchief. “I'm certainly going to ask parliament to vote that way.”

“But it was one single, isolated incident.”

“Of this particular nature, yes.” The Prime Minister's eyebrows bristle. “The other attacks didn't start with other nations.”

“Still, that could be a coincidence that oughtn't set us on the path to war.”

The Prime Minister smooths the corner of the document he's reading. His mouth purses and he says, “It was a deliberate attack on our people at a time that should be set apart for joy and merry making.”

“I understand that,” the Secretary says, straightening. “At the same time, however, I feel we should make attempts at reconciliation before considering an armed response.”

The Prime Minister turns in his chair. “Reconciliation when all those people died at that Christmas market? When we know the attack came from beyond our borders!”

The Secretary acknowledges the gravity of the situation with a nod. “That's all true.” The facts can't be disputed. Even the Ministry of Defence agrees. “However, we don't know who was behind it, what started it. Perhaps it was rogue forces who did it.”

The Prime Minister scoffs. “You have no proof of that.”

“But not proof to the contrary.” The Secretary's eyebrow spasms upwards. “And there have been rumours.”

“Oh, please,” the Prime Minister says, his jaw tensing. “I hope you're not in a mood to lend credence to those silly fables, are you?” He turns his face away so he's looking at the window or rather frowning at it. “You really think it was a monster, some kind of fairy tale ogre, that caused all those deaths!”

“There was something.” The Secretary has studied plenty of security videos, rewound and fast-forwarded them plenty of times. He knows what he's seen. “I'm sure of it.”

“The videos must have been manipulated.” The Prime Minister picks up his pen, clicks the button on and off, puts it down. “That's easily done nowadays.”

“Sir.” The Secretary feels he must give his act of persuasion another try at the very least. “That's not exactly true, sir, and we have reason to believe the footage wasn't tampered with.”

The Prime Minister slams a hand on the table. “So you'd rather put faith in made-up monsters than in the wisdom of self-defence!”

“That's not what I'm saying at all, sir.” The Prime Minister seems for some reason to be eager to wilfully misunderstand him. “I'm merely recommending caution.”

The Prime Minister stands. “Sometimes self-defence is the most prudent move. Sometimes, in order to ensure one's well being one must strike first.”

“Sir, I urge you not to submit this motion.”

The Prime Minister gathers his documents. “I must do it.” He squares the papers so none is sticking out. “I must. The people's elected representatives will concertedly decide on the best course of action and the fate of the nation.”


	13. An Encounter with Santa

When Arthur blinks, he finds he's no longer in his living room. He's standing on what, if it wasn't for the snow coating the ground in every direction, he'd call a village green. Of greenery itself there's no trace however. The snow is compact, arranged in tasteful mounds, utterly and completely white, no trace of mud or sludge to break up its candour. Low houses surround a large square. Ribboned garlands frame windows and run right under gables. Holly wreaths hangs on doors, large and luxuriant. Fairy lights twinkle behind panes and come in ropes that festoon the bulk of buildings.

“This is Christmas on steroids,” Arthur says as he completes his study of his surroundings. “Far worse than Mrs Kay's decorations.”

“Welcome to the Santa Village.” Merlin dimples, bows. “Welcome to the land of perpetual Christmas.”

“You mean to say we're at the North Pole?”

Merlin nods broadly. “Yes, by and large.” Merlin gives his hair a rub. “Technically, the North Pole shifts. It's something called latitude variation. But some years the village does stand exactly at the antipode.”

“If we are at the North Pole...” Arthur can't really believe he's saying that when a few moments ago he was comfortably ensconced in his own living room. “...how come I'm not freezing to death?”

A herd of reindeer passes them by. The animals have bells at their necks and are caparisoned with felt and leather embroidered saddles that bear winter motives. 

Merlin shifts to let them pass. “The magic of Christmas.”

Questioning his own sanity, Arthur repeats the words to himself. “Right,” he then tells Merlin. “So what now?”

“Now,” Merlin says, grabbing his wrist, “we're going to pay Santa a visit.”

On the way over, Arthur goggles at every single construction they encounter. The buildings are mostly wooden with moss covered roofs and tall chimneys. Some constructions are made of brick. They, Merlin tells him, are the school, the accounting centre, and the toy factory. The toy factory, Merlin adds, is no longer as big as it used to be, not with kids nowadays wanting the kind of gift elves alone can't provide. (He inserts a rather derogatory comment about technology.) But it's still the largest building they have. 

“How about Santa?” Arthur asks, feeling a kind of nervous fluttering in his stomach of the kind he hasn't experienced since childhood. Which is stupid, because really. “Where is he?”

“There.” Merlin points ahead. “In the great hall.”

The great hall looks like Arthur's idea of a long house. It's all wooden and its roof is wattle and daub. The windows glow and its façade is decorated with garlands and strings of mistletoe. By the door stands an eleven foot pine, a star, a real one, shining on top. 

Inside, the hearth burns brightly with a log on top. Wreath rings hang from the rafters and candles burn on wrought iron tripods. Past a set of tables, Arthur treads on rushes that smell like evergreens and walks up to a high dais.

A round man with a white beard is sitting in a carved wooden chair, present boxes scattered at his feet. He's whittling away at the hind legs of a wooden horse, the detailing of the carvings astounding. The horse's mane is parted in strands and knots of sinew show at the animal's haunches and flanks.

When Merlin comes up to the dais, the man puts down the horse and adjust his spectacles. “Ah, Merlin,” he says, “is that you?”

“Yes, Santa.” Without letting go of Arthur, Merlin takes a step forward. “Clerk elf second class at your service.”

“I did think it was you.” Santa hooks a thumb around the snap of his red brace. “Well, young elf, what brings you here? Do you need a new shipment of ledgers?”

“Well, actually.” Merlin clears his throat. “I've found the Christmas Warrior.”

Santa's spectacles slide down his nose. “You have what?”

“Found,” Merlin says, giving Arthur a shove forward. “The Christmas Warrior.”

All the elves in the room freeze. The one who was sweeping the floor in the corner leans on his broom. The ones adding logs to the fire stop mid action. And the ones trimming mistletoe lengths into table decorations drop their oeuvres. 

Coughing into his fist, Santa slides his gaze over to Arthur and says, “Him?”

“Yes.” Merlin smiles wide and nods. “His name's Arthur and he's the Chosen Warrior.”

To the sound of his chair creaking, Santa picks himself up and hops off the dais. He comes to a standstill opposite Arthur, studies his face close, and then grabs him by the forearms.

With his touch Arthur sinks into a hazy vision. The lighting around him is very warm and bright but blurring at the edges, the picture a little fuzzy. He's in his room, not his current bedroom, but in his old one at his parents' house. The door closes with a snick and Arthur has a view of his bedside lamp and of the window gaping over the back-garden.

Arthur tries his best to sleep. He closes his eyes and counts sheep. He shuffles in bed and the mattress sighs. Eyes screwed tightly shut, he turns and buries his head in the pillow, but sleep won't come. So he pushes the covers off and pads to the door. He tries the handle and, when it gives with very little creaking, Arthur moves onto the landing. He's close to the top of the stairs, when he hears his father talking:

“So when are we putting the presents under the tree?”

Mum wanders into his field of vision. Arthur can see her legs but not her torso. She hasn't changed into her PJs yet. “In a while. He's just gone to sleep. He may wake again. You know he always gets up for a glass of water.”

“You're right.” Father's moving about makes the floorboards creak. “On the other hand, I was thinking...”

“What?” 

The sound of glassware being shifted about reaches Arthur's ears. “Arthur is six,” Father says. “I was just wondering if the time has come for him to be told Father Christmas doesn't exist.”

Mum takes a glass from Father. It shines in her hands. “Isn't he too young for that though?”

“I don't think so,” Father says, pausing to take a sip of his drink. “I think the time has come for Arthur to understand the realities of life.”

Arthur's heart breaks in a thousand little shards. With a sigh he looks out the corridor window. He'd always hoped that he'd one day spot Santa's sleigh, that he'd see it fly past up in the sky. He supposes that was a vain hope, a completely silly one. He must have really been stupid though to be so taken in. He'd believed. He'd been so sure and yet... And yet what he'd held as a truth was no more than a bunch of lies the adults had told him. Arthur kicks the banister. “So stupid.” Head down, he makes it back to his room. He burrows under the blankets, hides his head under the pillow, and falls asleep in that position. The next morning he acts as though he hasn't heard a thing, and when his parents show him his Santa presents, he makes all the appropriate noises.

“You don't exist,” Arthur says to the mound of presents once his parents have wandered off, into the kitchen where they're busying themselves over the Christmas luncheon.

Arthur blinks and sees Santa standing before him. “You don't exist--”

“You.” A smile fattens Santa's cheeks. “You are the Christmas Warrior.”


	14. A Gathering of Witches

Moravian Plain, 16 December, 201-

The trees give way to a clearing bathed in moonlight. In its centre a fire burns; the high and scalding flames reach for the pale full moon shining overhead. Their whispering an echo of ancient tongues, sibilant and guttural, grass blades sough. From the deep tangle of the forest other murmurs rise, the howling of wild beasts, the skitterings of small animals, the flutterings of birds of prey. Around the bonfire a group of women stand, young and old, hoods pulled over their heads, their cloaks rippling with their every movement, shimmering in the pale light.

When the moon shines brighter, the wolves come out of the forest, their eyes flaming the colour of embers, their pelt matted, their fangs bare.

Morgause pulls her cowl down and circles the bonfire. “Welcome to the covenant of covenants, sisters.”

Each witch acknowledges Morgause in her own way, a nod of the head, a word spoken in an old dialect, a smile, a curse.

Morgana is the only one who says nothing. 

“I've gathered you here,” Morgause says, meeting the eyes of her sisters, “to give you your marching orders.”

One of the witches – aged, grey haired – breaks rank and steps forward. “And what makes you think you have the power to do that?”

Morgause points at the forest. “Him.”

The foliage shakes, the ground thunders, and the Krampus emerges from the depth of darkness that is the forest. Its fur is caked with blood and its mouth is set in a rictus that sends even the wolves cowering.

The witches murmur in unison, a chorus that is both loud and discordant.

The witch who'd spoken first says, “So it is true. You have unleashed the Spirit of Chaos.”

“That I have.” Morgause smiles at the Krampus, who grunts. “But my plans are far more ambitious.”

A young witch says, “How?”

Morgause's eyes spark red. “The Krampus will bring down Christmas.”

“We're glad you freed the Krampus,” the witch who first spoke says. “But what the Krampus has never done is stop Christmas indefinitely.”

“Up till now.” Morgause tips her chin up. “But with the help of out new sister Morgana we will strike at the very heart of Christmas.”

Morgana takes her cue. She steps into the centre of the clearing and takes her place at Morgause's side. She lowers her hood and stabs a defiant glance at the coven. 

“And who may this new witch be?” An old enchantress, all warts and gnarled fingers, steps out of the circles and hobbles over to Morgana. She takes her face in her hands and tips it to the side. “A pretty thing, surely, but as new as the grass is green.”

“I--” Morgana turns her face away from the old witches' clutches. “I have insider information.”

A stutter of whisperings rises from the circle.

“What manner of insider information might you have, young witch?” the old crone asks. “What privileged source have you?”

Morgana's preparing to answer, when Morgause does for her. “My dear sister knows the secrets of Christmas....” Morgause makes a pregnant pause. “Because she used to be an elf.”

The reaction to that is pure chaos.

“Even so,” the old crone says, “how can that help us!”

Morgause stalks round the fire in tightening circles, her cloak brushing the embers. “Morgana knows how to find Santa's heart of hearts.”

The witches murmur among themselves. 

It's a young one who asks, “She knows where it is?”

Morgana holds her head high. “No. But I can locate it, undo the web of secrets surrounding it.”

“Can you?” the old crone asks. “Can you really?”

Morgana wants to shut the old witch up with a slap. She's underestimating Morgana the way everybody else has always done and she's over that. She was done the moment she left the North Pole, but she can't overreact now. She and Morgause need these witches' support if they want to succeed in their plans. So she bides her time and says, “Yes. I'm the only one who can.”

“If our sister can really do that,” the younger witch says, “then we ought to support her.”

Approval comes from all the other sisters. 

“So let me understand correctly.” The old crone picks up the conversation's thread. “You mean to let the Krampus act while you also try to outright kill Santa Claus.”

“That's correct,” Morgause says. “The Krampus' hatred has already spread throughout Europe and it's now moving beyond, causing chaos, spreading hatred, starting wars. While I control the Krampus, Morgana will go on a mission to kill Santa.”

“He might still set off on his blasted run before Morgana does her thing.” The old crone pulls at her chin. 

“True,” Morgause says. “That's why we have also implemented a plan affecting Santa's means of conveyance. He won't depart.”

“Can you spell it out for me?”

In spite of Morgause glaring at her, it's Morgana who answers. It's high time for her to take centre stage. And if Morgause dislikes it, tough luck. “We can't. You'll have to trust us.”

“No.” The old crone spits at the ground. “I'll tell you what we'll do. If your Krampus unleashes enough hatred to sow the seeds of a world war, if the ex elf--” The witch spears Morgana with her gaze. “--kills Santa, we will join your war on Christmas and destroy the remaining elves. If not...” She cackles to herself. “If not, you're on your own.”


	15. Inside an Elf's Cottage

“My house is that way,” Merlin says, herding Arthur in the right direction. “We can wait there while the the council is summoned. ”

Arthur throws a last look at the great hall behind him, shifts his weight, and then falls into step with Merlin.

All the way over to Merlin's place he's silent. Or rather he makes small noises under his breath, but none of them amount to a word or what can be called a conversation.

When they get to Merlin's cottage, Merlin says, “Well, this is mine.”

Arthur makes big eyes at Merlin's door. “It's very... festive.”

Merlin waves a hand at his door and it opens. “Wait till you see the inside.”

The moment Arthur enters several candles flare, fairy lights start glimmering, and the fire in the fireplace whooshes warmer.

Arthur's mouth falls slowly open. “You really must have a fondness for red.”

Merlin's face falls. “You don't like it.” Perhaps he did go a little overboard with the cushions trimmings. He should have gone for a more sombre crimson velvets instead of a bauble motif on bright red. “I could enchant the place to look a little less Christmassy.”

“No, I...” Arthur shifts on his feet. “It wouldn't be right. It's not you.”

Merlin ducks his head. “Umm, would you like some food? Or some hot chocolate? Or a big cup of gluehwein?”

“No. No.” Arthur passes a hand down his face. “I think I'm drunk enough.”

“You're having a hard time adapting.” Merlin feels for Arthur. Learning you're a warrior destined to do great things is a lot to swallow. “Aren't you?”

“I suppose I'm suffering from a massive attack of culture shock,” Arthur says, ruffling his own hair. As he does, his elbow hits the dangling mistletoe. It starts swinging from side to side and Arthur puts his hands up to stop it. When it ceases moving, Arthur's shoulders sag. “I mean I've never really truly believed in Santa Claus and now this.. It's quite a lot to swalllow.”

Merlin tilts his head. “Do you have trouble believing now?”

Arthur massages his temples. “There's still a big part of me convinced I'm on some kind of bad acid trip.”

Merlin frowns. “A what?”

Arthur's lips quirk. “Some kind of twisted dream.”

“Because you don't believe in magic,” Merlin says, trying to sort out what the root of the problem is. “Is that it?”

Arthur sinks onto a chair. “To be quite frank, yes.” He buries his hands in his hair. “I mean what is even all this?”

“The Santa Village?” Merlin sits across from Arthur. “Look, I understand how hard this must be for you.” The first time Merlin saw the world outside the North Pole he was fairly taken aback. “But if you're here, it's for a reason.”

“And what would that be?”

That's an easy answer to give, for Merlin's known about the legend of the Warrior for quite some time. “Saving Christmas.”

Arthur wags his head from side to side. “I wouldn't even know how to begin doing that.” Arthur lifts his gaze to meet Merlin's. “I'm a lawyer, not...” He gesticulates widely. “Not Aragorn.”

“Who?” 

Arthur rattles out a breath. “Never mind. The point is I don't know how to fight and I'm not even that much into Christmas.”

“That doesn't matter.” How can Arthur think it does, Merlin wonders. “What matters is your heart.”

“And what do you know about it?” Arthur asks, with an upward tilt of the chin. “You don't know me. I'm not that good a person.”

“I don't believe that for a minute.”

“I am a pretty cut-throat lawyer. I have cut ties with my father. And I'm not too heartbroken about my boyfriend walking away.” Arthur's gaze searches the distance. “I'm not some kind of hero.”

“That's not what makes a good person though.” Merlin covers Arthur's hand with his. “What makes a good person is a willingness to try, to make a difference, and it seems to me you've already shown that.”

“How?” Arthur blinks.

Merlin gives his shoulders a raise. “You're here. If you didn't want to give this a go, you wouldn't be. You'd be at home minding your own business.”

“You'd have pestered me into coming,” Arthur says, nocking an eyebrow.

“Perhaps.” Merlin hunches forward and smiles. “But I couldn't have shown you this place if you had no faith in it, if you didn't want to see it.”

“Really?”

Merlin nods slowly. “Yeah.” he drums a rhythm on the tabletop. “Now let me get you something.”

Merlin is deep into a recipe for eggnog, when Arthur says, “So you believe in me?”

“Yes,” Merlin says, as he stops pouring rum into the milk mixture. “Utterly and completely.”

Arthur's eyes flare but then a slow smile he seems to be unconscious of unfurls on his lips.

Merlin feels something shift inside of him, like the geography of him is being rearranged to make space for larger-than-life emotions. Suddenly optimism seems like an entirely reasonable way of thinking.


	16. The Bucket

Gwen shuffles forward in the snow, fodder pail hugged to her chest. The mixture of barley, oats and wild grasses makes her sneeze, but she knows how important it is for her charges. So, with a little heave, she hoists the pail up and makes herself cross the courtyard.

One of the grooms opens the doors for her and suddenly she's enveloped in the cosy warmth of the stables. “So how are the reindeer today?”

The groom falls into step with her. “Most of them are fine, but I'm afraid something's the matter with Prancer.”

“Oh my.” Gwen gives the bucket to the groom and hurries towards Prancer's stall. “I want to check on him personally.”

Prancer lies on the hay, his legs folded under him, his muzzle turned to the side.

“Oh my God.” Gwen enters the stall and pats Prancer's back. “What's wrong with you?”

Prancer sniffs and lifts its muzzle. He has pained eyes, which he turns on Gwen. 

Gwen goes on her knees and checks Prancer. His breathing is quick and his muscles are tense as is his abdomen. “He's ill.” She kisses him between the antlers. “Something's wrong with him.”

The groom leans against the stall door. “I thought so too, but I can't begin to guess why.”

“Perhaps it's a seasonal illness,” Gwen says, fully meaning to run all the tests she can.

From the other stall Rudolf bellows.

“He's been like that all morning.” The groom shifts. “I thought he might be coming down with something too, but that's not it.”

“How do you know?” Gwen says, cocking her head to the side. 

“Well, he's done his test run fine.” The groom nudges his shoulders upwards. “His temperature is normal too.”

“So none of the other reindeer are displaying any symptoms?.”

“Well, no,” the groom says, “though Rudolph refused to eat anything today.”

That's something that makes Gwen pause, process. “Nothing at all?”

“No.” The groom makes a sign with his head. “He would not eat from his pail at all. Kicked it and Donner's and walked away.”

Gwen pushes to her feet and says, “Show me this bucket.”


	17. Santa's Plan

The hall is full of elves. It teems with them. In the morning, when Arthur had visited a few had been up and about, crowding the space. Now there's scarcely any elbow room left. The elves bustle about dressed in tones of red and green, hoisting their tankards high, and talking to each other in low excited tones. They're all looking to the dais, where Santa stands.

Right, Santa. That's not a name Arthur ever thought he would contemplate in all seriousness, at least not since he'd been a child. Seeing him there, telling himself he's the real deal, well, it's something new.

“Come,” Merlin says, taking Arthur's hand and leading him into the depth of the hall. “This is my seat.”

As Arthur settles in it, the elf next to him arches an eyebrow. “Merlin, who's your friend?”

Merlin places a hand on his shoulder. “This is Arthur. Our Chosen Christmas Warrior.”

Mordred waggles a single eyebrow and says, “Him?”

“Yes, him!” Merlin sticks his chest out. “He'll save us all!”

“I believe you,” Mordred says, his expression remaining unconvinced. “It's just that he doesn't seem ... imbued with the Spirit of Christmas.”

Arthur wants to protest that. Not exactly because he's a believer in Christmas, or because he thinks he's actually some sort of mystical warrior, but because Mordred's incredulity seems like a slight to Merlin. 

He's still trying to come up with the words, when an elf sounds a drum and Santa stands.

“Dear Elves,” he says, his belly sticking roundly outwards, “I have gathered you here because I have good news.”

The pom poms attached to their caps swaying, all the elves perk their heads up and speak into each other's ears, nudging each other, raising a buzz of a murmur that wafts across the hall like a wave of sound. Arthur can't quite believe his eyes, would rather convince himself this is some kind of mushroom hallucination, but he has to admit it. This world feels real, the people in it do too, particularly Merlin with the faith that burns in his eyes, and Arthur can't truly discount his current experience. 

Unaware of Arthur's plight, Santa continues. “We have a plan to tackle the witches.”

An elf with pigtails raises her hand and asks, “How?”

“All in good time, all in good time.” Santa holds a palm up. “First of all, I'd like to praise Merlin, clerk elf, second class.” Santa's gaze latches onto the crowd and seems to search it for Merlin. When he locates him, Santa smiles, points, and goes on speaking. “He's found our Christmas Warrior.”

Everyone double takes and looks in Arthur's direction.

Arthur feels his face go crimson and his cheeks heat. He wants to say that he's no true warrior, that he's never fought with anything other than law codicils, and that he wouldn't know where to begin waging battle against unknown foes. But he doesn't want to disappoint the people looking at him with such hope in their eyes. So he bites his tongue and listens to what Santa has to say.

“Thanks to our Warrior we will defeat the Krampus and save Christmas.”

Calls of, 'but how?” and “are we sure it's going to work?” resound across the hall.

Santa places his foot on a stool, hooks his thumbs under his belt, and says, “Let me tell you a story.”

The hall grows silent.

“Once upon a time, I had a good servant,” Santa says. “He's since retired but he was loyal and faithful.”

“Aye,” says the elf standing on the dais next to Santa. “I remember him.”

“He was a small-time knight with a tiny plot of land attached to his homestead.” Santa tips his head back, narrows his eyes to near closure, and lets his voice become fondly reminiscent. “His name was Ruprecht, and every year when the good season was over and the dark months started, he would go on a tour of the world. He'd take his nag and stop at every village and town.”

“Aye,” the dais elf says, “for centuries he did this.”

“Indeed.” Santa nods. “He went from house to house and interviewed parents and children alike so he could make a list.”

“The naughty or nice list,” every bystander choruses. “We know it.”

“Right, right of course you do.” Santa hums. “Of course roads have always been dangerous.”

Most elves speak a word of agreement on the subject.

“And I remember worrying for poor Ruprecht,” says Santa. “He was poor and couldn't afford to hire guards to travel with. So I gave him a sword.”

Merlin elbows Arthur and says low under his breath, “I believe this is it.”

To be honest, Arthur is not getting any of this. He's getting lost in all this talk of knights and times past and has no idea how this connects with him or his supposed role.

Santa says, “This sword is a rather uncommon sword, and not like any other.”

An awed whisper echoes throughout the hall.

“It needed to protect Ruprecht,” Santa says, lips thinning. “And the greatest threat to him were the forces of darkness.” Santa paces the length of the dais, tugging on his braces. “Therefore, I ensured his sword was forged in a very special way.” Santa winks at the elf on the dais. “The short of it being that this sword has power over the creatures of darkness.”

“Can it kill the Krampus?” Mordred asks, his voice drowning those of the other murmuring elves. “Can it do him in?”

“It can defeat him,” Santa says, “and that's all we need.” He smiles at Arthur. “If it's wielded by the Chosen Warrior.”

“All right, okay.” Mordred inclines his head. “That's good enough. But how do we find the sword? I gather Ruprecht isn't currently around.”

“That's correct.” Santa returns Mordred's gesture. “That's why we'll send our Warrior on a quest to find Ruprecht.”

The elves gathered in the hall cheer and clap but Arthur feels like his legs have been cut out from under him. He sweats cold and his stomach twists in knots. Merlin notices and touches his hand with his and the gesture fills Arthur with such a warmth it chases away the chill that had enveloped him. “I have something to say,” he says, standing upright. “I'm really honoured by your trust in me.” All eyes are on him, the attention piercing, and this is worse than even the most gruelling of Arthur's first job interviews, the ones that failed miserably. “But I'm afraid you've got the wrong man.” He tries to calm the rising outrage with a hand gesture. When the room's a fraction more silent, he adds, “I'm not a warrior, I can't use a sword, and I have none of the skill sets required for the job at hand.”

Some elf or other boos him.

Arthur understands how much these people – elves – are clinging to their hope he can do something to save their way of life. But Arthur is not their man and he's got to make it clear. “I'm sorry but... that's just not me.”

“No,” Merlin says, speaking loud. “It is you. I can see it in your heart. If you would but try.”

Merlin's eyes fill to the brim and there's such hope and confidence there that Arthur does find himself wanting to give this a stab. “I, erm, well.”

Entreaties rise, filling the hall with their sounds, but it's Merlin Arthur's looking at, Merlin and his sanguine countenance, his optimism, with the faith in him that touches Arthur deeper than a caress. Shoulders pulled back, Arthur steps forwards, and says, “Let's say that I will do it...”

Santa smiles. “You'll be offered all the assistance necessary.”

Arthur somehow doubts that, not that the Santa Village people aren't showing all manner of goodwill, but Arthur's taking on a quest he doesn't know how to carry out, so the elves' offer of help, while welcome, doesn't sound as reassuring as they might think. “I thank you but--”

“You will have your pick of our best elf warriors,” says Santa, swiping his hand at a section of the audience. “They have battled witches and the powers of darkness before.”

“See, about that.” Arthur ought to just accept and be done with this. The elf warriors have probably hands-on experience with the enemies Arthur has promised to tackle. “I'd rather do this on my own.”

“But you just said you felt ill equipped to face the witches' threat,” Santa says, bushy eyebrows climbing. “Are you sure that's the best choice?”

“When I said on my own...” Arthur clears his throat. He can't believe he's about to say what he means to. “I mean with--” Arthur breathes through his nostrils. “--Merlin.”

Merlin beams, says, “Really! You want me with you?”

If Arthur had had a qualms about it before, he doesn't now. Merlin is glowing and this time it may not be with magic, but his radiance is as evident as if he were sparkling with the most powerful spell on earth. “Yes.”

“Truly?” Santa fiddles with the spectacles atop his nose, centres them so he can better look at Arthur and says, “Merlin?”

Arthur bobs his head. “Yes, Merlin.”

Merlin, turns around, places his hands palm to palm, and smiles giddily. “Please, Santa?”

“I won't object,” Santa says, the words rumbling in his chest. “You are the Chosen Warrior and therefore know best.” Santa pats his beard. “I will however ask whether you know that Merlin is no fighter?”

“I've realised that.” Arthur's seen the piles of letters stashed in Merlin's house. He knows that his job has something to do with them. Besides, Santa called him a clerk, didn't he. That's as white-collar as it comes. “And I think it doesn't matter.”

“In that case.” Santa's cheeks twitch. “I give you both my blessing.”

Merlin spins rounds and hugs Arthur. In his ear, he says, “We're going to save Christmas, Arthur. Just wait and see!”

Arthur brings an arm up, so he's half embracing Merlin in return. He's not sure whether he should place his hand on Merlin's lower back or not. He only knows that he feels a hesitance about it that chokes him in the throat and makes his skin prickle. In the end, Merlin's breath warm on his neck, Arthur settles his hand on Merlin's back, north of the small of it, south of the shoulder blade.

Everyone cheers and Santa says, “Let's celebrate the setting off of the Warrior!”


	18. Solutions

Gwen goes on her knees, buries her hand in the bucket and rakes up a bundle of hay. After having sniffed it, she wrinkles her nose. She places the tip of a stalk on her tongue and spits it out immediately. “The reindeer fodder has been poisoned,” she tells the groom, straightening. “Prancer's certainly has been.”

“Poisoned?” the groom asks, goggling at the buckets they've gathered round to sample. “How is that even possible? As grooms we're the only ones allowed close!”

“I think I have an inkling as to how it was done.” Gwen frowns deeply. “No blame to you.”

“Then how?”

“By way of a spell,” Gwen says, knowing that's the only answer possible. “Someone cursed the fodder.”

“I still don't get how.” The groom scratches at his forehead. “It's such a specific curse. You'd have to know where the fodder would be kept.”

“I know!” Gwen taps her foot. “It must have been an insider job.”

The groom gasps. “You can't be saying it was one of us!”

“Oh, no.” Gwen has faith in all the grooms; she's worked side by side with each one of them for centuries, and can't begin to imagine one of them would harm their charges. “I wouldn't doubt you for a moment.”

“But then who?” The groom's eyes fill with fear.

Gwen has no idea. “Someone who knows about us, that's clear.”

The groom nods. “An elf then.”

As impossible as that seems, Gwen can draw no other conclusion. “I'm afraid so.”

“But what do we do about it?” The groom rakes both his hands down his face, spins round till he falls back in the position he started from, and whines out loud. “How do we stop them!”

“Well, for now, we focus on our reindeer.” That's got to be their top priority. “We can play detective later.”

“Which measures do you suggest we take about the...” The groom makes humming sounds and waves his hands about. “...the poisoning?”

“We throw out all of our barn fodder.”

“All of it!”

Gwen thinks it out quickly. “Fresh plants will be sure not to have been tampered with so we'll take our reindeer out to pasture” 

The groom raises his hand. “But where! The North Pole isn't exactly verdant and without the fodder we stored there won't be any food to be got.”

“Lapland,” Gwen says, sure of her answer. “We'll take them to Lapland.”

“Good, right, good.”

“But first of hall we need to heal the poisoned reindeer.” Gwen rolls her sleeves up. “So prepare emetics and magic potions.”

“Will do!” The groom knocks his heels together and salutes.

“And on your way to get those,” Gwen adds, “do warn Santa of the goings-on!”

“Yes, Gwen!” The groom hastens out of the stables.

Gwen betakes herself to the animal stalls. Her first healing session is on.


	19. Threats

Demre, (ex Myra), Turkey, 14 December, 201-

 

Wrapping her mantle more tightly around her, Morgana walks up the steps leading into the old town. Houses lean ones towards the other, small windows gaping at each other. Some of the doors stand open, revealing dark, empty interiors, dank passageways, abandoned backyards, and unlit stairwells. All street signs have bent or rusted or otherwise become illegible. But Morgana doesn't need to be told where to go. She can feel it.

She climbs to the top of a knoll on which a small, two story construction stands. With its bell tower and belfry, it still bears some of the signs of its original purpose, but it's stripped of most of the others. 

Morgana places a hand on the door. It's wide and sturdy and bolted but at a word from her it opens.

The old man is kneeling before a narrow metal-frame bed. When she enters, he says, “I know what you've become.”

Morgana claps. “So you know I'm a witch.”

“You weren't, once.” The old man stands. “I know what you've come for.” He tucks his hands in the sleeve of his robe. “And I won't tell you.”

Morgana takes a tour of the room and tuts. “Is your Christmas worth so much?” She stops and raises and eyebrow at the man. “Is your religion worth so much?”

“This has nothing to do with religion,” the old man says, standing taller, “for Nicholas adheres to none. It's got everything to do with spreading love.” He pauses and looks into Morgana's eyes. “You used to know how to be able to do that.”

Morgana raises a hand and the old man goes flying until he hits the wall and slumps on the rickety bed at its base. “What you fail to understand, old man,” she says, clacking her tongue, “is that this has nothing to do with me and everything to do with justice.”

“Justice?” the old man scoffs. “You call this justice?”

“I call punishment just, yes.” Morgana tips her head back. “So tell me what I want to know. I'll make it worth your while.

“I'll never speak!

Morgana smirks. “I'm patient.”

“Patient?” The old man huffs. “You don't know the meaning of patience. I've been guarding my secret for centuries, I've stayed when all the Greeks left Turkey, and I've never faltered. Why would you think I won't keep it longer?”

“You underestimate me,” Morgana says, letting her eyes glow. “I'll get it out of you.”

The old man arranges himself in a sitting position. “I'm loyal to Nicholas.” He shrugs his shoulders.

“As was I.” Morgana snaps, the words not ones she'd planned to say, nor ever again. They sting her heart and her skin. They bring with them a flush that burns her. “I changed, didn't I?”

“Unlike you, I won't.” The old man smiles a wary smile. “Do your worst.”

“The Krampus is already doing that for me.” Morgana wishes the old man lived in some place other than a hovel, some location that had a radio or television. If he did he'd know and then he'd capitualate without forcing Morgana's hand, without having her do things she doesn't want to contemplate. “As we speak, it's spreading terror and fear, revealing the true nature of men.”

“And you think that's fair?” the old man asks. “You think it's legitimate?”

“It's doing nothing but what's in his genes.” Morgause has impressed this on Morgana countless times. “People are responding according to their natural inclinations.”

“And you think the provocator's not to blame?”

“They're quarrelling and threatening war over the strife sparked by a demon.” For Morgana it's all so obvious. “If their hearts were pure they wouldn't.” 

“And sowing discord has nothing to do with that?”

“People are out on the streets practising vengeance,” Morgana says. “Governments are retaliating against neighbouring states for the acts of the Krampus. The demon might have started it, but the reactions are all genuine.”

“After you've disseminated fear and panic in the hearts of humanity--” the old man shakes his head. “--how can you be surprised by the outcome?”

“I'm not surprised.” Morgana doesn't believe in good will, stopped doing so a long time ago. “I'm simply painting a faithful picture of the mankind you're so willing to suffer for.”

“And that's your problem, thinking that that's a faithful picture of humankind. But I don't believe you truly do. I think you've been fed this line by the corrupting forces in your life.” The old man broadens his shoulder. “Either way, I'm willing to stand up to my beliefs.”

Morgana takes a step back. “You needn't.” Her voice falters, but she steadies it with her powers. “You can just tell me where Nicholas' heart is.”

“In his chest.” The old man smiles.

“You know what I mean.” Morgana raises a storm and the precious few objects that are in the chamber whirl around in a vortex. “Tell me where Santa's heart is.”


	20. The Nuuttipukki

The Staffer hands the Secretary the parliamentary vote results. “So we're really doing this? We're going to war?”

“The Prime Minister didn't even need to finish his speech,” the Staffer says. “Long before he did he'd already persuaded most of the ministers.”

“I don't doubt it.” The Secretary balls the papers in his fist. “Their hearts were set on hatred from the very beginning.”

“After that border incident, we all knew it would be like that.” The Staffer sounds matter of fact, but there's an edge to his tone that reveals his disappointment. “And now with these new attacks...”

“How many?” The Secretary hasn't kept up with them. They're mostly being treated as an excuse to retaliate and spread even more hatred. But he's been remiss. He shouldn't shield himself from the truth. “Two, three?”

“Five, sir,” the Staffer says. “A stabbing in a shopping centre, a stampede at a peace concert that left ten dead, and three more attacks on various markets.”

“Just like Bad Gastein?”

“Yes.” The Staffer licks his lips. “Same rumours too.”

“Any proof?” The Secretary's heart races in his chest. “Anything tangible?”

“Yes, if you know where to look,” the Staffer says. “I--” He swipes a hand down his face. “I saw proof of the existence of things the human soul will naturally baulk at.”

The Secretary knows everything hinges on what he's going to say next, how he says it. “You mean to say you saw the creature?”

“When I went over that video...” The Staffer drops his gaze and his body goes rigid. “...I saw a monster, lurking at the edges of the mayhem, its eyes glowing red.”

“You saw him too then.”

“Indeed, sir,” the Staffer says. “I think it's also behind the child disappearances that have been plaguing this hemisphere.”

“I suspected that too.” It's an idea that's been niggling the Secretary's brain for quite a while. “I have nothing solid to go on, though.”

“Neither have I.” The Staffer purses his lips. “But--”

“But?” This is something the Secretary wants to hear. “I assure you whatever you tell me will stay between us.”

The Staffer swallows, darts his glance away, but then he balls his fist and says, “Among my mother's people there is a legend. It's about the Nuuttipukki, a creature said to wander from house to house on the night of the 13th of January. He'd threaten the inhabitants of the homesteads he visited. He'd wreak havoc.” The Staffer looks into the distance and frowns. “Legend has it he looked like an animal, a goat or something.”

“Goats sound harmless,” the Secretary's says, unable to imagine how one could cause all that much damage. “Are you sure this is the same thing?”

“The creature isn't really a goat.” The Staffer explains that with wide gestures of his hands. “The comparison is nothing more than a hint to the wildness of this beast, the animal nature of the creature. I think we're dealing with an archetypal form of evil disparate populations have named differently throughout the centuries.”

“But at the core--” This is an interesting view of the subject, the Secretary finds. “They're the same thing?”

“I believe so, sir.” The Staffer bows his head. “I believe it's the same evil entity we're talking about. A creature that's gone down in different lores as a symbol of the negativity of the winter season. ”

The conjecture strikes the Secretary as probably accurate. “But it's not a symbol?”

“No.” The Staffer shakes his head. “It's real.”

“So how do we stop it?”

“That, I'm afraid, I don't know, sir.”


	21. Taking Off

“So how do I stop it?” Arthur asks as Merlin packs the sleigh. “I mean I get the sword--”

Merlin secures the provisions to the back of the conveyance. “ _We_ get the sword.”

“We get the sword.” Arthur rolls his eyes. “And then what?”

“We'll get there when we get there,” Merlin says, straightening, trying to smile as confident a smile as he can. 

Arthur splutters. “That's not a plan of attack!”

Merlin winks. “It was never supposed to be.” Not strictly speaking anyway.

Arthur is still demonstrating his unhappiness with Merlin's approach to their quest, when Santa and his council join them. 

Santa stops by the reindeer, pats one on the muzzle, then turns to Merlin and Arthur. “This,” he says, handing Arthur a parchment, “is Ruprecht's last known location.”

Arthur accepts the parchment with a bow. “Thank you.”

“Once you find him,” Santa says, “tell him you come from me.”

Arthur arches an eyebrow but nods.

“Well.” Santa backtracks and comes level with the reindeer again. “There's nothing left for me to do but to wish you good speed.”

“Thank you, Santa,” Merlin says, pulling Arthur on board the sleigh. He elbows Arthur and Arthur thanks Father Christmas, too.

Unhitching a pouch hanging from his belt, Santa sprinkles a golden powder all over the reindeer. Golden light swirls around them, spiralling upwards. Pinpricks of stars dance around their legs and envelop their bodies. The reindeer prance and paw the ground. Santa leans into the swell of light arising from the dust and murmurs something in the lead animal's ear.

And then, air whooshing around them, Arthur and Merlin are off, the sleigh tilting until they're completely airborne.


	22. Two Elves Walk into an Inn

Gwen plonks down in the seat next to him. She sighs as she does, rubbing at her eyes. 

Mordred turns on his stool and says, “You look tired.”

“I spent the last two nights tending the herd,” Gwen says, running her hands along the length of the wooden bar. She toys with the ribbons that decorate it. “I've hardly slept at all.”

“Is there something wrong with our reindeer?” Mordred asks, taking a pull of his eggnog. It's actually three parts rum to one part eggs and cream. “I thought they were fine.”

“Some of the are.” Gwen hails the innkeeper. “But some are ill. They've been poisoned.” To the innkeeper she says, “I'll have the same as Mordred's having.”

“That's heavily spiked eggnog.” There's a warning in the innkeeper's raised eyebrows.

“That's actually perfect,” Gwen says.

“So...” Mordred toys with his glass. “...that's worrisome, about the reindeer I mean.”

“Yes.” Gwen turns to him. “Yes, yes it is. I've healed the ones who were poorly. And I'll be taking them to pasture elsewhere so they can have access to whole, nutritious food. But I can't say this hasn't taken a toll on me or on them.”

Though Mordred already suspects the truth, he asks, “I gather the poisoning wasn't accidental.”

“No.” Gwen's ringlets bounce as she shakes her head. “I don't think it was.” She exhales long and hard, frowns too. “The worst of it is that...” 

Mordred's interest is definitely piqued now. “The worst is what?”

Gwen purses her mouth, glowers at the eggnog the innkeeper slides her way. “That one of us did it. One of us poisoned the herd. I really can't believe it.”

Mordred makes a face. “I actually can.”

“Fie.” Gwen frowns at him. “So little faith in your fellow elves.”

“No.” Mordred doesn't think Gwen's got him. “It's not like that.”

“Then how is it, Mordred? Gwen asks, before taking a sip of her eggnog. The taste makes her wince but she arches her eyebrows at Mordred all the same.

“There's something I know,” Mordred says, gauging Gwen's receptiveness to his theories, “that may explain a few things.”

Gwen leans closer. “Like what?”

“There's an elf I know...” The Santa Village is by no means huge, but even it's not as if everyone knows everyone else. “They're missing.”

“Missing, how?” Gwen's expression stays solidly mystified.

“They're not there.” Mordred's been round to Morgana's more than once since he first found her hut empty. “And there's no reason for their absence.”

“Have you checked with Santa?” Gwen asks, her tone low, no more than a murmur. “Maybe they're on a mission for him.”

Mordred tilts his head back and sighs. “I don't think so.”

“And youre positive this elf poisoned my reindeer?” 

Mordred's shoulders bunch. “They put a curse on them, yes. It would have been within the purview of their abilities.”

Gwen places a hand on his, putting a lot of pressure in the touch. “We must warn Santa of this then. Reveal their identity.”

“No.” Mordred knows how busy Santa is. He's just seen the Warrior off and him and his team are probably intent on tracing him and lending him all the support they can. Besides, he doesn't want to burn bridges. For Morgana's sake. “I'm doing this on my own.” He stands. “I'm going to stop them or die trying.”

“Mordred, please,” Gwen says, her hand going to her throat. “Think about it!”

“No.” Mordred's never been so sure before. “I'm going to do this.”

Mordred exits the Winter Inn before Gwen can persuade him to the contrary.


	23. The Befana

As they take off, Arthur screams. Air whooshes around him, comes at his body in a wall. It ruffles his hair, whistles in his ears, and freezes his mouth in a grimace. The sleigh dips and planes and bears on air currents, diving and moving upwards at speeds Arthur's never gone before. This is worse than any plane turbulence Arthur's ever experienced and yet, when their conveyance steadies and he's offered a look of the world down below, Arthur can't help but laugh with delight. A geography of ice rifts unfolds beneath him. Patches of cobalt blue sea ripple in between craggy islets. Polar bears wander the icy wilderness, calling out to each other in deep rumbles that carry on the air.

“The world is beautiful!” He yells that at the top of his lungs. There's probably no point in doing so since Merlin can hear him well enough. But it's nothing short of the truth and he feels he has to convey his enthusiasm the only way he knows how. “Look at that ice island! And is that... Is that a polar bear calling out to us?”

“I suppose he is,” Merlin says, waving at the animal in question. “Polar bears have long been friends to Father Christmas.”

“Of course they have.” In view of what's happening to him, Arthur really must stop feeling surprised by these things. Isn't he flying on a sleigh pulled by reindeer? Everything else is just icing on the cake, he supposes. “Stupid question. Pardon me.”

They veer southwards and eastwards. The vista fills with greens and browns and dustings of gold. They fly over mountains, sometimes between peaks, and over lakes and seas. They glide apace with birds and storm right into clouds. After a while they start coming down, the bottom of the sleigh brushing tree tops. 

“Brace for landing,” Merlin says, pulling the reins.

Arthur hasn't yet fully managed to grip any handle, when the sleigh impacts the ground, bounces, impacts again and crushes to a stop when its side fender cuts into a tree. 

“Don't tell me.” Arthur's head's swimming and his eardrums hurt. “You're not an expert sleigh-driver?”

“Well.” Merlin sucks his bottom lip in his mouth and lowers his gaze guiltily. “I've never actually gone on the Great Run so I'm no expert pilot.”

“Yeah.” Arthur pushes to his feet and hops off the tilting sleight. “I got that.”

“I only ever fly locally.” Merlin climbs over the sleigh's side rail. “I still don't think I did too badly overall.” He gestures at the reindeer. “They're fine.”

The reindeer are indeed grazing rather peacefully, but Arthur doesn't think they'd complain either way. He doesn't say anything however because Merlin looks rather proud of his flying achievements. He's in fact smiling, dusting the sleigh, and smoothing the ribbons knotted around the reins. 

Once Merlin's done with that, they start across a field. Arthur can't tell what has been planted. He has no eye for that and the terrain is frosted over in patches. But he can tell that the furrows are crumbling, indistinct, smudging one into the other.

When they've put the field behind them, they come upon a large sprawling farmstead made up by more than one building. The side one lacks its roof and the door to the central one hangs open, budging with the wind.

“I have a feeling,” Merlin says, conning the building from top to bottom, “this place is deserted.”

“Yes.” Arthur fingers the length of dry, limp mistletoe hanging from the door. “I think so too.”

Merlin's shoulders droop but he still says, “That doesn't mean our mission has failed. Not at all.”

Arthur doesn't want to contradict him or give his hopes a fell blow, but he can't say he feels as optimist as Merlin. “No, you're right.”

“No respectable quest was every fulfilled in one single sitting.” Merlin peeks into the house, the loose ends of his scarf fluttering in the wind. “Maybe we should have a look inside. For clues as to where we can find Ruprecht.”

Upon entering they set off a cluster of wind chimes.

Once they've bypassed he hall, they get into a long rectangular room that looks half like a kitchen, half like a store room. At one end there's a tall stone fireplace littered with dry ashes. Opposite it and occupying half the room in length is a wooden table. In the corners crates pile up one on top of the other while cobwebs dangle from the ceiling. 

“It doesn't look very lived in, does it?” Arthur says as he toes the floor, moving mounds of dust around. “I think nobody's been here in quite a long time.”

“You're right.” Merlin toys with a wooden ornament hanging from the window's crossbeam. “That is inconsequential though. We'll find Ruprecht and--”

An old woman dressed in tatters and with a long nose upon which a wart grows shuffles in, tugging at her grey shawl. “The man you seek is not here.”

“How do you now we're looking for someone,” Arthur says, tensing. 

“Do you know Ruprecht?” Merlin says, whirling round.

“That I do.” The woman stoops forward. “I've known him for quite a long time.”

Arthur feels a shiver travel up his spine. “You.” He gets closer to the old crone. “You're like them...” He gestures at Merlin. “A creature of magic.”

The woman narrows her eyes at him. “Who wants to know?”

“I'm Arthur Pendra--” Arthur starts to say.

Merlin interrupts him to add, “He's the Chosen Christmas Warrior.”

“My, my, is he?” the old woman comes closer, sniffs him. “And what does he want with the Befana?”

“You're the Befana!” Merlin smiles, then bows. “Very nice to meet you, my lady.”

Arthur makes a face at Merlin, murmurs, “Who is she?”

Merlin mimes back, “Very important personage.”

The Befana scoffs. “My question stands.”

“We're looking for Ruprecht,” Merlin tells her. “He's got something we need.”

“What maybe that be?” The Befana sidles closer to Merlin.

“A sword,” Merlin says, “one that will save Christmas from the Krampus.”

The Befana chuckles. The sound is protracted, distinctive, coming from deep within her chest. “So that's what it was. I felt it. I felt his awakening.”

As the Befana goes on to explain the ins and outs of her reaction to the loosening of the Krampus, Arthur huffs. If there's anything he's learnt in his profession is that time is of the essence and that wasting it is criminal. What they don't really need to do right now is listen to this old lady's reminiscences. “Can you tell us where to find Ruprecht and his sword?” 

The Befana eyes both Arthur and Merlin warily. “Yes, yes I can.” 

Arthur and Merlin make big eyes at each other then turn a pleading glance at the old woman. 

“Please, do tell us.”

The Befana stomps forwards and pulls a chair from the table. In spite of the layer of dust covering its surface, she sits in it. “We can talk about it over a nice cup of tea and a chunk of prime coal.”

Arthur opens his mouth to speak. “We've no time for--” 

Merlin waves his hands about in a motion of denial. “We'd love to have a chat.” He winks at Arthur, takes a seat across from the Befana and smiles. “Though we haven't been naughty so we'd rather have sweets than coal.”

Arthur completely fails to understand this, but that doesn't seem to matter, for Merlin and the Befana are by now deep in conversation.


	24. Succour

Demre (ex Myra), Turkey, 18 December, 201-

 

Mordred enters the empty chamber. He finds the old man slumped on the bed, his hands roped together, his hair falling forwards in sweaty strands.

Unsheathing his carving knife, Mordred hurries over to him and cuts the rope. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” The old man closes his eyes. “Yes.”

“You don't look like you're well, sir.” Mordred helps the old man to sit upright. “Are you sure you don't need me to get you to a doctor?”

“I'm positive,” the old man says, looking Mordred in the eyes. “I need to tell you something. Something very important.”

“It's about Morgana, isn't it?” Mordred is certain that it's about that. That feeling has brought him here, all the way to Turkey. It's been like following a thread that as led him to this chamber.

The old man breathes hard. “Yes.”

“In that case we may have to talk.” Taking most of his weight, Mordred pulls the old man to his feet and walks him into the nearby room. He sits him in a chair and pours him some wine. “But you must look after yourself first.”

“You don't understand.” The old man shakes his head and puts down the glass Mordred gave him. “Nicholas is in danger.”

“Nicholas is an elemental spirit.” His very being is part of the earth. Mordred's knows that as he knows the nature of his own essence. “He can look after himself.”

The old man compresses his lips, glancing at the glass in his hand with a lost, troubled air. “I know he never was a bishop. I know he never even was a man. But Morgana's after his hearts of hearts.”

Mordred's legs are cut from under him. “Right. That is concerning.” In his head Christmas bells ring a dirge. “But no real reason not to look after yourself.” Mordred arches an eyebrow. “Drink.”

“But.” The old man's knuckles whiten around the glass.

“Drink and we'll concoct a plan to stop Morgana.”


	25. A Constitutional

Somewhere in Lapland, 18 December, 20-

 

The plain is vast and sprawls outwards as far as the eye can see. Ice patches give way to banks of moss. Felled trunks softened by the winter rains lie scattered across its length and breadth, lichen encrusting their bark like a velvety carpet. The earth is soft, brown, the grass withered to the russet colour of nuts, but here and there patches of sedge and grass do grow and the reindeer take to it like water. 

Heads down, they graze to their hearts' content, munching loudly. Ever since they got here, their eyes have become brighter and their coats thicker, lustrous. Gwen can't take her eyes off them, or stop rejoicing in their new found well-being. She can't restrain herself from patting their heads and sides, encouraging them with sweet nonsense words. “If it goes on like this,” she says, as she watches the herd move from grass patch to grass patch, “you'll all be fit by the time the Great Run rolls around.”

Prancer head-butts her and she laughs, the laughter tickling her chest. She has her hands in his fur, when the wind rises like bells and she's reminded of all that's going on that could prevent the Great Run from taking place. She leans her head against Prancer's side and murmurs, “Let's hope Merlin and his Warrior are doing fine.”

Prancer bellows agreement, then puts his head back down and continues grazing, stripping the earth of patches of tall grass.


	26. Descent into Darkness

Morgana throws the rope into the hole, checks the knot twice and then lowers herself. The cavity is narrow, edges of rocks sticking out, dust layering it. As she lowers herself, boulders poke at her back. The rock face tears at her skin, scratches her sides, but she makes herself continue. Finding footholds, she descends into the dark, further and further away from the light of the sun bathing the earth. Before her feet touch ground, the aperture narrows even more, but then she's in the cave. 

Letting go of the rope, she turns round. There's no light. Shadows lurk in the corners and envelop the length of the cavern. She can't see a thing. With a whispered word, she summons her magic and a ball of light takes to hovering to her right at shoulder height. Thanks to it, she advances into the heart of the mountain. Little by little, the aperture broadens and she can stop stooping. 

The light of her magic plays on the rock wall, taking shape. Stick men contort on the granite surface; flames dance. Wolves leap and prey at each other.

A cold shiver running down her spine, she ignores the images her magic's evoking. The snarling beasts of prey. The figures that twist and grovel on the walls. The vultures snapping their wings over whooshing flames. That's not her. It's by no means her. She likes to think that her spirit is at one with her light, which still shines blue. It's her guiding beacon. It tells her about who she is, how right she is in doing what she is. Light and darkness have to go hand in hand; otherwise goodness would corrupt itself by way of self-congratulation. “Yes,” she says low under her breath. “It's what must be done.”

When she comes to the large chamber, it's almost a surprise. She's not ready for it. She doesn't think she can ever be. Not yet. She locates the stone altar but doesn't approach it. She stands there instead, her skin prickling, her forehead clammy with hot sweat. She breathes in and out and yet cannot move. This is her turning point. The moment that defines her. After this there's no turning back and she can't really imagine what she'll be like after she's done it, if she'll be proud of herself for having accomplished the mission or if she'll revile herself. Either way she must be the sacrifice. “Strength is proved through sacrifice, an unbending will to one's duty,” Morgause had said. She must be right. She always is, isn't she?

With her heart hammering in her chest, Morgana advances, one step at a time. Her feet are heavy; they drag. But she gets there all the same. Her magic removes the top stone from the altar. When it falls sideways, it raises dust that prickles her throat. Coughing, she advances. The cavity is hollow, empty.

“The heart is not there,” she says, even as she taps the insides of the receptacle. “How can it not be there?”


	27. The Sword in the Stone

Somewhere Magic, Planet Earth, 18 December, 201-

A wall of vines separates them from the castle. It's thick and tall and there's no gap in it. Neither is there a gate or lane leading inside. 

“So how do we get in there?” Arthur can't believe they've got this far only to have to stop here. “This wall is impenetrable.”

“I suppose there's nothing for it.” Merlin's eyes glow. “I'll have to use my elf magic.”

As Merlin speaks, branches and foliage recede, forming a gap wide enough to allow them to pass. 

“Technically, I'm not supposed to use my magic lightly,” Merlin says, “but this seemed like an emergency.”

"I somehow suspect you'll be forgiven." Arthur bows. “After you.”

A garden opens up before them. Boxed in by low hedgerows, flowers grow. There are roses and blue bells and asters and delphiniums. They shake in the light breeze, shedding a petal here and there, the bulbs seeking the sun in an array of dazzling colours. 

“How can they be in bloom?” Arthur asks, goggling at the sight. “It's December!”

“Magic.” Merlin grins. “This place smells like Christmas.”

“But there's nothing Chistmassy about it.” The place looks like an ordinary castle to Arthur. Well, in as far as Arthur's been to castles before. It has turrets and staircases, ramparts and walkways, a courtyard with a stone well. “It reminds me of the places we used to visit on school trips.”

“Trust me.” Merlin moves towards the inner courtyard. “I'd know.”

They come to a stone hall with a wooden roof segmented by thick rafters. Large stained glass windows open onto a small inner garden and light up the salon in golds and blues. At the centre of the hall a big rock stands out of which a sword sticks. 

“Do you think that's it?” Arthur doesn't want to think this is a coincidence. They need a magic sword and they've just stumbled upon one that has a decidedly mystical air about it. “I have a feeling it might be.”

“I do too.” As he beholds the contraption holding the sword, Merlin's eyes fill with awe. “I don't know why but that rock speaks to me.”

“So what do I do?” Arthur takes a hesitant step forward.

“I think you should try and extract the sword from the stone,” Merlin says, nodding to himself.

“Only the Chosen Warrior can take the sword from the stone,” a voice booms.

Arthur and Merlin whirl around at the same time. Arthur sees the man then. He has grey hair and a white beard that reaches to his chest. He's stooped and his fingers, curling around a staff, are knotty at the knuckles. Deep wrinkles surround his eyes and mouth.

“Are you Knecht Ruprecht?” Arthur asks.

“One and the same.” The man inclines his head. “I'm the guardian of this fortress though the fortress only stands to keep the sword.”

“We come from Santa.” Merlin bows. “We need the sword.”

“I can't give the sword to you.” Ruprecht's gaze loses itself in the middle distance. “Only the stone can yield it.”

“But why?” Merlin cocks his head to the side. “I thought Santa gave the sword to you so you could defend yourself from the forces of evil.”

“That was so indeed, Christmas elf,” Ruprecht says, advancing, his gait laborious. “But the sword holds great power and I wouldn't be responsible for it. I found the stone. It's got a breath of magic in it. It can weigh souls. Knows destiny.”

“So what?” Arthur isn't sure he gets it. He was certain Ruprecht would give them the sword and that that would be it. “What does that mean exactly?”

“The stone can see for me,” Ruprecht says in a tired, far-away voice. “It can decide who's worthy of wielding it.”

Arthur's afraid there's just one conclusion to be gleaned from that. “Wait, are you saying I must free it from the stone by myself with no help from you?”

“Yes.” Ruprecht moves his head up, then down. “That's exactly what I mean.”

Arthur gathers his hands into fists. “You don't understand. You don't get how urgent this is.”

Ruprecht wings up a wild, bushy eyebrow. “I do. I spent centuries battling the forces of evil. I did it until I was too tired to even lift a finger.”

“In that case you'll know there's no time to waste,” Arthur says, his eyes flaring. “You'll know that I have to get that sword.” Not that Arthur knows what to do with it but that's the plan and he has a feeling the weapon itself is important. “You must see that.”

“I do see that.” Ruprecht hobbles towards the stone. “But if you want the sword, you'll have to go through the test.”

Arthur turns round, takes in the rock and the blade embedded in it, swallows hard. 

“You can do it.” Merlin places a hand on his shoulder. “I know you can.”

“Because you think I'm the Warrior.” Arthur knows that Merlin has sensed something in him that makes him the Chosen one. But Ruprecht is talking about something quintessentially different. He said only a worthy man can get the sword out its bed of rock and Arthur doesn't think he's that. He's made an effort, especially in his youth, to be as much of a good man as he could. But lately that hasn't been his focus. His career has. “But I don't think I'm--” good enough. “The kind of upright man who can pass tests of this sort.”

Merlin smiles. “You don't have enough faith in yourself, Arthur, but you really should.”

Arthur shrugs. “I don't think I can, Merlin.”

“I believe in you, Arthur.” Merlin's palm fits itself around the shape of Arthur's shoulder. “I believe your heart is in the right place.”

It's moving that Merlin should think that. But that doesn't change the reality of things. “How can you know that though!” 

“Who else would have dropped everything in their life to go and save Christmas?” Merlin sends him a shrewd look. “Who else would have been so understanding about things they don't properly understand?”

“You needed help.” Arthur knows how easy the choice was. He still worries about his job, what his boss will think, but with everything that's happening Arthur could hardly refuse to lend a hand. “You said I was the only one who could.”

“Most people would have refused,” Merlin says. “You haven't. That shows what a good heart you have.”

“Even so...” Arthur worries at his lip.

“Believe me, Arthur, I know how good you are.” Merlin angles Arthur so he can fully gaze at the stone. “Why don't you give it a try? What's the worst that could happen?”

Failing, Arthur thinks. That's the worst that could happen. But the fear of that pales in comparison to the thought he'd be disappointing Merlin by not trying. Merlin's words are... a balm to the heart, they staunch a wound Arthur didn't even know was there and for that alone Arthur's willing to try. For Merlin. And of course, justice and Christmas. He braces his body for it, rolling his shoulders back and doing his best to relax, breathe in and out in a pattern conducive to calm, clarity of thought. He doesn't get calm. His heart's beating way too frantically for that, but he takes a step forwards, and another and another, until his palm is wrapped around the hilt of the sword. 

“Right,” Arthur says, changing his grip on the hilt, then doing so again. “Right.”

He tries to empty his mind of thought and not to focus on how he secretly knows he's not worthy at all. A few considerations do pop up in the midst of this fugue, though they're not about himself at all. They mostly involve Merlin and how Arthur hopes he won't be let him down. Merlin loves Christmas so. He's made of Christmas. So Arthur can't allow anything to happen to it. Or for that demon to go on killing unchecked. 

Arthur inhales deeply, until he's light-headed with it, and then pulls. There's resistance. The blade won't come free. Arthur's hopes plummet and his body tightens. His hands dampen with sweat and his forehead beads with it too. Heart fluttering, he closes his eyes and tells himself he will make one last effort. He tugs at the hilt, and in one single motion it comes free. He's looking at the reflection of sunlight on the blade, when Merlin tackles him into an embrace and says, “I knew it! I knew you would do it!”

Holding the sword aloft, Arthur stands taller, and then he smiles too.


	28. The Soltsice Sacrifice

Morgause's Lair, 20 December, 201-

 

The children stand huddled in a corner of the hut. They're chained one to the other and the eyes of some are fat with tears, their faces pale with fear. 

The Krampus growls at them, pacing up and down, shaking his fists in the air.

“You'll have to be patient, demon,” Morgause tells the creature. “You will have them. But only when the time has come.”

Opening his mouth and letting out a snarl, the Krampus spins round. 

His are not words but Morgause understands his intentions well enough. “I know that's what you want to do. But you must wait for the solstice.”

The Krampus lets out a deep-throated bellow, wraps a hand around Morgause's throat, and pins her mid-height to the wall.

Morgause can't breathe. With her fingers she tries to loosen the Krampus'grip. But it's like steel. As much as she scrabbles, she can't get the Krampus to let go his hold on her. Her lungs on fire, her throat hurting with a burn as fierce as the sun's, she coughs. With the little breath she has left, she says, “Once the Solstice starts, our sacrifice will be much more powerful.” For a moment the Krampus cuts off all her air and Morgause can't say anything more. But then one of the children wails particularly loudly and the Krampus gets distracted.

Morgause uses that to say, “And then you will have them. You will have them all!”

The Krampus opens its mouth and howls right in her face. Its yes glow a molten red and spit drips from its fangs.

As Morgause has no more air, her vision swims, and her frantic attempts to free herself lose momentum. She's just about to give up, when the Krampus lets go and she falls in a heap at the base of the wall. Cupping her throat, she watches the Krampus howl at the heavens.

The children cry louder.


	29. Back Home

Gwen leads the herd northwards. As it moves, the bells at the animal's necks tinkle. Their hooves leave prints in the snow. They're rounded and deep, forming patterns in the ice when they get mixed one with the other.

Patting Donner's back, Gwen says, “We must make it back to the Pole in time for the Great Run.” Having taken the reindeer to graze, Gwen's out of touch with the North Pole. She doesn't know whether Merlin and Arthur are making any progress, whether they've saved the day. And even though Delivery Day is in peril – and with it the very magic of Christmas – she can't do anything but but do her part to save the holiday. Sprinkling gold dust over the herd, she says, “Come, this will help you go faster.”

As she sprinkles dust all over the animals, a golden mist swirls around them, rising in a vortex that's as bright as the sun.


	30. Persuasion

The Great Ice Cave, 20 December, 201-

 

Mordred enters the ice palace. White columns glint in the sunlight. The floor is compact, transparent, unlined. The roof arches outwards in a series of barrel-vaulted spaces. The air is crisp and bright, heavy with the cold.

Close to the altar stands Morgana. Instead of her elvish clothes, she's wearing a dark robe and hooded cloak. It shimmers as she moves, revealing green and blue accents. 

Before she can get to the ice dais, Mordred thunders, “Stop, Morgana!”

In a swirl of clothes, Morgana whips round. “Mordred! How--”

“Have I found you?” Mordred asks, raising an eyebrow. “I went looking for you and you were not there.”

“Well, congratulations on your intuition.” Morgana gathers her cloak round her so she can stalk forwards. “That won't stop me.”

“You're of course free to do whatever you want.” Mordred lifts a shoulder. “I most certainly won't try to kill you.”

Morgana scoffs. “Pull the other one, Mordred.”

Mordred puts both of his hands up. “I'm honest.”

“Honest, Mordred, yes, indeed.” Morgana presses her lips together and looks away. “And you've followed me here for no other reason than to say hi.”

Mordred knows that Morgana's not stupid. But he's actually banking on that. If he's to succeed, he must appeal to her smarts. “No, you're right, I haven't.” He passes his tongue over his lips. “I've come to make you see reason.”

Morgana's chin shoots up. “Reason!”

“Yes.” Mordred takes a step forward. “You're an elf, Morgana. Destroying Christmas...” He huffs. “It's not what you want to do.”

“It wasn't what I wanted to do,” Morgana says, her tongue clacking sharply. “It's my objective now.”

“How can it be?”

“How can it not be?” Morgana's gaze fires. “The entire Christmas establishment is self-indulgent and wrong. It puts aside real goodness and justice in the name of celebration.”

“It doesn't do that when it comes to real goodness.” At the North Pole Mordred has been made welcome and given a purpose even when he most doubted himself. “We're just busy sometimes so we don't pat ourselves on the back all the time.”

“No.” Morgana tilts her head back. “But neither do you punish the undeserving.”

“Life punishes people enough.” Men, women, children, everybody stands to suffer, Mordred's deeply aware. “Why should elves add to that?”

“Because evil has a place on earth. It's there,” Morgana says. “And it must be acknowledged. Thwarted.”

“Evil. That's such a strong word, Morgana.” Mordred pins her with his gaze. “Who suggested it to you?”

“My sister in witchery.” Morgana's voice rings out loud and the air shakes with its undertones, with the echo of it that carries on the wind. “She knows about these things. She knows all about darkness and punishment. She's aware of the evil that's in me.”

“In you?” Mordred's eyes widen. “There's no real darkness in you, Morgana.”

“I know there is. I know I can be jealous and petty. I know I harbour grievances and never let them go.” Morgana holds Mordred's gaze, doesn't flinch at all. “Morgause saw that and still loves me.”

Mordred's shoulders slump and he rattles out a sigh. “Oh, Morgana, you can't think you weren't loved.”

“I had all these dark thoughts and dreams,” Morgana says, “and no one suspected that. Nobody paid me any attention or was willing to help. Only Morgause was.”

“We were probably busy with the Great Run preparations.” Mordred remembers he was up to the gills with them. “But that doesn't mean we wouldn't have been willing to help if you'd come to us.”

“Would you?” There's a trembling quality to Morgana's voice now. “Really?”

“Of course.” Mordred nods. “We stand in solidarity to each other.”

“That is not true,” Morgana says, her throat working, her eyes growing large with pain. “You forgot all about me. I had no true role at the village.”

“Not many of us are that vital to the Great Run.” Mordred isn't. Neither is Merlin. Well, normally at least. “But that doesn't mean that we won't get a chance.”

“That is not enough!” Morgana steps backwards, towards the ice altar. “I have a chance at something meaningful now.”

“Meaningful?” Mordred can't quite believe his ears. “You really think killing Santa is a meaningful action, that it will do something other than spreading sadness and hate?”

“They exist too.”

“But they aren't really in your heart.” Mordred isn't so sure by now but he hopes he's right. He isn't certain at this point but he'd rather cling to that shred of positivity, believe the best of the people he knows. If he doesn't, he's headed Morgana's way. “Don't try to become the thing you fear the most just because you dread the path you're on.”

“I--” Morgana's voice falters. Whatever she wants to say stays unuttered.

Sensing some new hesitance in her, Mordred knows he's got to go in for the kill. “Someone's been persuading you, Morgana, to serve their own purposes. This isn't you, but the good news is you can make a choice now. You can step back from all of this and do the right thing.”

“And what?” Morgana asks, “would be the right thing?”


	31. Demon Spotted

Merlin steers the reindeer southwards. “Can you see them?”

As the sleigh tilts, Arthur clings to his sword and to the frame of their conveyance. With the move, the town square comes into focus and Arthur can spot various buildings and the mass of the moving crowd. It's steering away from something, a huge column of darkness that upon closer scrutiny reveals itself to be the figure of some kind of animal. 

It's huge, with horns and matted fur. Much like a human being it stands on its hind legs, but there all similarities to man end. Its snout is that of the beasts that haunt people's worst nightmares as are its teeth. Its stature and shagginess rule out the possibility of it being anything other than a wild thing.

“I think that's it.” At least Arthur believes the thing looks too much like a demon not to be one. “The Krampus.”

“I'll be landing,” Merlin tells him, as he pilots the sleigh towards an empty corner of the square.

“Yes, do.” Arthur just hopes he'll know what to do once he's actually set foot on town soil. “Do.” 

Once the sleigh has landed, Arthur hops down to the ground, sword held high.

“Krampus,” he yells, hoping he'll get the beast's attention. “Come pick on someone who has a chance.”

As if homing in on him, the Krampus lets out a howl that raises a wind. 

“Okay, right,” Arthur says, readjusting his grip on the sword. “Maybe that wasn't a good idea.”

Swatting people left and right, the Krampus ploughs a path through to Arthur.


	32. Elf and Witch

Merlin is bracing to use his magic to help Arthur out, when Morgause calls out to him. “Elf!”

With her hair loose, her cloak billowing after her like the waves of the ocean, and her crazed smirk, she looks so confident, Merlin quakes in his own boots. Virtually nothing in his clerk-elf training has prepared him to face a challenge like this and now he wishes something had. He should at least have taken elf combat classes. Those would have been bound to be useful. Well, there's not help for it now. He fills his lungs to shout, “Morgause, stop all this before you cause any more victims!”

Morgause laughs. “Why should I when things are going the way I want them to?”

“Because you cannot be wanting to cause this much suffering,” Merlin says, trying to appeal to Morgause's heart. It must be buried in there somewhere. “What are you even trying to achieve?”

“Justice,” Morgause says. “Balance. But you're too weak as selfish to see that.”

Merlin opens his mouth to object, but Morgause puts her hand up and Merlin goes flying backwards.

“Merlin!” Merlin hears Arthur shout, but he can't exactly answer, because he's moving through the air at such dizzying speed he can barely refrain from passing out. When he impacts a wall, all the breath he has left goes into a loud moan, and then he can't really stop from blacking out.


	33. Fighting

“Merlin!” Arthur yells, as he tries to make his way to him. “Merlin!”

The Krampus takes a swipe at him, sending Arthur careering backwards, pain lighting up his side. When he hits the ground, he loses the sword, and the Krampus comes at him.

Arthur's head still swimming, when he sees the beast over him. Knowing that if the Krampus gets its paws on him Arthur's dead, he rolls. When he's moved far enough from the Krampus' reach, Arthur's scrambles to his feet and tries to locate the sword. One glance is enough to tell him that it lies between him and the monster.

“Right,” Arthur says, as the Krampus goes on the attack again. “Riiight.”

The Krampus claws at the air. Arthur ducks and somersaults out of the way. He finds himself to the side of beast, the sword glinting right behind the creature. Both arms spread outwards, the Krampus slashes at Arthur. 

Diving forwards, Arthur rolls between the Krampus' legs and gets behind him. With a sprint, he makes for the sword. His fingers have just touched the hilt, when the Krampus grabs him by the leg and drags him backwards. Arthur kicks, shakes free, crawls forward, gets a hold of the sword again. But the Krampus drags him back. With a powerful forward heave, Arthur manages to free himself. Aware that the Krampus is behind him, the rancid smell of its fur a dead give away, Arthur knows he's got but a handful of seconds to get to the weapon. He reaches for it, clutches the hilt, jumps upright and whirls round. 

The Krampus rushing him, Arthur dances sideways and cuts at the beast with the side of his blade. Blood, dark and smelly, oozes from the wound and Arthur's almost gagging from it when the Krampus lets out a primal yowl. With a speed Arthur wasn't expecting from it, the creature claws at Arthur's side and sends him hurtling backwards.

Pain dims Arthur's vision and robs him of consciousness.


	34. And Fighting

Merlin hurts. His skull throbs, his body is in an agony of aches, and his breath is caught in his lungs. With a push of his hands and feet, he tries to pick himself up but sinks back down.

“You thought simple elf magic could save you from me,” Morgause says with a hiss of sibilants thrown in among her words. “Well, sorry to disappoint.”

Morgause lifts her hand then, her eyes go as red as furnaces, and she incants a spell that lifts a whirlwind.

Sweeping everything in its path, it rotates towards Merlin. 

Shortly before it hits him, Merlin thinks good thoughts and wraps himself in his Christmas magic. It enfolds him in its bright glow, glistening around him like a cascade of stars, and, when the whirlwind hits his shield, it doesn't touch Merlin at all. 

With a groan, Merlin stands. “The magic of Christmas protected me, Morgause, and it will always protect me.”

“Only as long as Santa stands,” Morgause says, coughing out a grating laugh. “And he won't stay alive for long, believe me.”

Merlin wants to ask what she means. He suspects she's hinting at some other part of her malevolent plan, but he can't because she attacks him again.

This time a bolt of lightning hits close to his foot. The next one is aimed directly at his chest. To avoid a new volley, Merlin dives to the side. He's barely got his breath back, when Morgause starts again, hitting him with spells that wither everything in their path, with balls of fire that leave scorch marks in their wake, and blasts of wind that are as cutting as steel blades. Most of those attacks don't wound Merlin, because his shield holds, but some of them do. By the time Morgause tires, blood's dripping from many of Merlin's cuts, and his elbow is a little bit scorched. “Okay, all right,” Merlin says, “I tried not to hurt you. But you're making it very hard not to respond.”

“As if you could touch me.” Morgause scoffs to his face. “Your power is only good enough to freeze time and conjure pretty fireside tricks.”

Merlin's shoulders slump. “You can't say I didn't warn you.”

“Do your worst, puny elf.” Morgause's voice rings out with an eerie echo. “Do your worst!”

Merlin closes his eyes and sinks into a world of burning fires and sparkling lights, of shooting stars and diamond dust. He hears the reverberation of elvish voices singing in a language that's long dead. When he opens his eyes again, a snow storm is circling Morgause, wrapping her in its folds. As much as she battles it with her magic, her feet start to freeze. Though her eyes glow red, ice coats her legs and then her chest.

“You can still walk away,” Merlin shouts at her over the din of the snowstorm he summoned. “If you promise to stop with this attack on Christmas, if you promise to help us take down the Krampus, then this can end!”

“I will never stop. I will cheer the Krampus on.” Her expression setting itself in stone, Morgause grits her teeth. “More, I'll glory in my victory.”

“You're losing Morgause.” Morgause can't be so delusional as to think otherwise. Merlin wonders what she could be getting at. “Face it and back down.”

“I'm talking about the children I've taken prisoner,” Morgause says. “You don't know where they are but the Krampus does. He'll sacrifice them and become more powerful than he already is. He'll put a stop to the charade that is your Christmas.”

Merlin can't tell whether she's lying or telling the truth, but he knows he can't let Morgause go free. She'd start this all over again. What's worse she'd unleash the Krampus on more unsuspecting people, endangering whole swathes of the world's population. And Arthur... With his destiny to stop the Krampus, he'd come to harm if Morgause was still around. With his heart heavy in his chest, Merlin continues directing his magic at Morgause. Ice surrounds her, from legs to chest to throat. Merlin stops again. “You can get out of this,” he yells. “You can make your peace with us all.”

“Never!”

As he finishes his spell, Merlin's eyes dampen with tears.

Before the ice completely encases her, Morgause spits out the words, “I curse you.”


	35. The Altar

Mordred watches as Morgana stalks up to the altar, her cloak dragging after her in coils of shimmering black. “Please, Morgana, don't do this.”

“I'm sorry, Mordred.” Morgana holds her hands up and the ice altar cracks in the middle. “I must keep faith with my sister.”

The fissure in the ice expands upwards until it reaches the top of the stone. The altar parts in two and a glow issues from it.

“Morgana!” As dread envelopes him, Mordred shouts. “You know you're better than this. Please, think about it. Don't do it.”

Morgana lifts the heart in her palm; in her other hand a shiny dagger with a pointy blade appears. “I have to.” Morgana's eyes widen. She pales so that her skin becomes almost as translucent as the ice. “I can't betray myself.”

“Doing it would be the true betrayal, Morgana.” Mordred's throat is hoarse from all the yelling . “Stop a moment and feel all the love issuing from that heart. Experience it, Morgana, breathe it.”

Morgana's hand trembles and the glow from the heart increases. “It is beautiful.”

“And full of love.” This is Mordred's last resort, letting Morgana's purer feelings find their echo in Santa's heart. "Just like yours.”

“I'm not as good,” Morgana says, lowering the hand holding the knife. “This is the proof there's no room for me at the heart of Christmas.”

“Wrong.” Mordred shakes his head from side to side. “That's proof of how strongly you can sense goodness and that's because there's a lot of it in you.”

“But my evil side...”

“We're all have some of that, Morgana,” Mordred says, “that's the point of the naughty or nice rigmarole. But the truth is, no matter your failings, Santa will always be there for you.”

Morgana drops the knife.


	36. Arthur's Charge

When Arthur opens his eyes, the beast is poking at him, its foul breath bathing Arthur in its stench. Fighting his gag reflex, Arthur flexes his muscles. The Krampus is thankfully too busy kicking at Arthur's lower body to notice that he's come round. As quietly as he can, Arthur inhales, closes his eyes again, and gropes for his weapon. When his fingers close around cold steel, he leaps to his feet and vaults behind the Krampus.

The Krampus roars and flails around with its clawed hands, reaching for Arthur. Avoiding its swipes, Arthur lunges with the sword, but the Krampus intercepts his arm. The Krampus' grip put tears in Arthur's eyes, strains his bones to the point he wants to scream with the pain of it, but Arthur grits his teeth, makes himself forget about the agony blooming at forearm level, and, with a wrench, steps free of the Krampus' grip. Blindly, he slices forwards. A howl tells him he's hit his mark as does the stench of the Krampus' blood. So as to vocalise its pain, the Krampus opens his jaws wide and roars in his face.

With a swift motion, Arthur dances back, flips to the side, and hacks at the Krampus. 

Clawing at him, the Krampus stumbles round. He catches Arthur in the shoulder but Arthur lets himself forget about the burn and moves towards the Krampus instead of away from it. Either in surprise or disgruntlement, the Krampus grunts and Arthur goes under his guard, walking into his arms and stabbing him clean in the belly. 

With a heave of all his limbs the Krampus sends him flying. 

Pain surrounds Arthur. It's at the small of his back and in his head. His chest burns fiercely and he can't string two thoughts together. They float around aimlessly around in his brain and he can't pin any of them down and focus. And yet, when the Krampus charges him head down, Arthur knows what to do. The blade in his hands glows and a voice rings in his ear. It sounds very much like Merlin's and he's saying something, something that Arthur can't make out. It doesn't matter though. He gets the message all the same.

With the last of his strength he throws the sword. Singing, it flies through the air and embeds itself in the Krampus' head, splitting it in two.

A wind rises around the creature, swirling around its feet and torso. Little by little the Krampus comes undone, dissolving into black dust borne away by a tornado.

Once the Krampus is gone, Arthur lets go and sinks into darkness.


	37. Back in Place

Morgana puts the heart back and seals the altar with her magic. When it's seamlessly closed, she turns around and says, “I put everything back into place.”

“That's good.” Mordred smiles sweetly at her. “That's great, Morgana.”

“I hope so.” It's strange. She'd thought she had no heart, or that it had turned to stone, and yet there it is contracting painfully. “I hope it's enough.”

“Yes.” Mordred lifts his head, then lowers it. “It's more than.”

“Will you tell Santa?” For some reason Morgana doesn't want the old man to know she went so far. “About the heart?”

“He'll forgive you, you know.” Mordred reaches a hand out to her. “Just come back to the village and take back your rightful place.”

“Won't they shun me after what I've done?” Morgana'd shun herself, if she was honest with herself. “Won't they hate me?”

“They won't hate you.” Mordred's hand stays in place. “Maybe it'll take a while to get their trust back, but they won't hate you.”

“If you say so.” Morgana takes a hesitant step forward.

“I say so.”

Her tread slow, laborious, Morgana moves towards Mordred. And then she takes the remaining space at a leap and flies into Mordred's arms.

He hugs her tight and says, “All will be well, Morgana, all will be well.”


	38. Harnessing Reindeer

Gwen leads the reindeer to Santa and says, “Here they all are, ready for the Great Run.”

Adjusting his belt over his red suit jacket, Santa moves over to her. “You did an excellent job, Gwen. You deserve recognition for this.”

Gwen's heart flutters in her chest. Santa's praise has always been the greatest honour at the Santa Village and now she's getting it in such large doses her cheeks will over-heat for weeks. “Thank you, Santa.”

“You don't need to thank me, the praise is nothing but your due for your outstanding efforts.” Santa pulls on his gloves. “By the way, where's your friend Merlin and where's the Warrior?”

“I haven't heard from them since they set off.” For that matter Gwen has no idea where Mordred is either. She hasn't heard from him since they shared a drink at the inn. “I'm sure they're fine.”

“But have they succeeded?” Santa says, gesticulating at the elves who're rushing about to prepare the sleigh. "That's the question."

“I must believe they have.” Gwen feels as if she would know if something terrible had happened. “We must hope.”

A groom hands Santa his riding whip. Santa thanks him with a large, puffy cheeked smile, then tells Gwen, “It's time.”

“I know.” Gwen bites her lower lip and looks around in the hopes she'll see Merlin and Arthur. “Can't you wait a few moments?

“Unfortunately, I can't,” Santa says, his shoulders broadening. “Whatever the danger to me, I must proceed with the Run.”

“But even so.”

“The presents must be delivered.” Santa looks past Gwen and at the sleigh. “At every cost, as they always have been.”

Knowing that there's no stopping Santa, Gwen watches him plod towards the sleigh.


	39. He Put In His Thumb, and Pulled Out a Plum

The children huddle in one corner of the dank roomful. Some hug each other; some sit with their shoulders down and their back to the wall. A precious few clutch teddy bears to their chests. The sight of them claws at Arthur's heart. Thank God. Thank God they were in time.

“Hello.” When he reads the shock in their faces Merlin starts tearing up too. “I'm Merlin and I have come to take you back to your families.”

Despite the phantom pain in his arm and at his side, which Merlin healed, Arthur smiles. For a while there, he'd been fearing they wouldn't find the children, that Merlin's Christmas magic wouldn't home in on them. But they've managed; it's worked and the children are going to be fine.

“Are you really?” one of the oldest children asks. “You're not here to take us to that monster?”

Merlin goes on his knees so that he's eye level with the little girl. “No, I'm not.” He places a hand on his heart. “You have my word.”

“You're dressed funny,” the girl says, pulling at Merlin's cap. It's a bit scorched at the sides from the pummelling Morgause gave Merlin, but it's still in one piece. “Are you sure you're telling the truth?”

“Merlin would never lie.” Arthur steps forward and out of the shadows to say that. “Because Merlin is a very good person.”

Merlin turns his head round whip fast and his gaze goes soft. His smile widens and when he turns to the kids his shoulders are pulled further backwards and it's as if he's occupying more space. “You can trust me because I'm one of Santa's elves,” Merlin says, grinning sheepishly. “And Santa never picks elves who'd lie to children.”

“Santa?” the kid says, her eyes growing bigger. “Well, then I trust you.”

The other children nod in chorus: most stop crying.

“Good,” Merlin says, standing and reaching a hand out to the girl. “Let's get you all home.”

When Merlin brushes past him, he tells Arthur, “Thank you. For your words.”


	40. Homecoming

Mordred can see the tears in Morgana's eyes when she comes in view of her own house. He can't know what she's going through, what remorse and guilt are eating at her soul, as she beholds it. But he thinks she's trying to put all of that behind her, to make an effort to be better than her failings, so he says, “I'd have given it a dusting, but I had no time.”

“It's all right.” Morgana takes his hand. “The state it's in... it's all my fault.”

“Morgana--”

Morgana squeezes his palm. “No. I know how to take responsibility for my own actions and I will. This...” She looks at her wooden house, at the dampened wood of its front balcony. “This is going to be my first step.”

“That's all right, Morgana.” As long as she's happy and no longer in danger of falling for the lures of evil people, Mordred's fine. Only forgiveness can lead to goodness.

“Let's go inside.” Morgana leads the way. “Let's try and fix it.”


	41. The Great Run

Merlin races towards the green in front of the Main Hall. Handkerchiefs at the ready to wave Santa off, throngs are already crowding it. Because of the crowds, Merlin can see precious little of the sleigh, but he can make out the reindeer, their red saddle cloth and the twinkle emanating from the bells that decorate the reins.

Because of all the ice, Merlin skids and stumbles and glides over patches of frozen ground. Still, he rights himself and continues at a dash, Arthur in his wake. When he gets to the green, he's not wholly in control of all his limbs, but he somehow manages not to cover the last hundred yards in a belly slide. His breath comes fast, when he says, “We made it, Santa, we made it.”

Santa pockets the magic dust pouch he'd readied for use and says, “Merlin! Has your mission succeeded?”

“Yes.” Merlin's breath is slowly making a come back. “Yes. All thanks to Arthur.” He searches for him and finds that he's a length or two behind. “He got the sword from the stone and battled the Krampus with it. He saved Christmas. He saved us all.”

“Then our Warrior is indeed deserving of praise,” Santa says, with a big smile that morphs his expression into one of utter joy. “And everyone round the world is going to get their presents and rejoice in the season.”

“Indeed, Arthur was great.” Merlin feels like he can go on on the subject for hours and hours. Though Santa must be wanting to set off, Merlin judges he has a few more minutes to listen to Merlin's praise of Arthur. “You should have seen him.” He mimics Arthur's sword fighting. “He acted with the assurance of a seasoned warrior, like a knight of old. He's got it in his bones. He's that great.”

Pushing past the standing crowd, Arthur says, “Merlin is being very generous with his praise but the truth is without him I could have done nothing.”

“How so?” Santa asks, an eyebrow twitching upwards.

“Merlin talked me through the pulling out of the sword ” Arthur says, finding Merlin's gaze with his. “Without his words I would never have got it.”

“I see.” Santa's lips form into a smile.

“And.” Arthur pivots so he's gazing at Santa now. “He took on Morgause himself. If he hadn't, I I'd have had to battle two enemies instead of one and, needless to say, I wouldn't have made it.”

Santa looks to Merlin. “It sounds as though you distinguished yourself too, Merlin.”

Merlin blushes. “I had to help Arthur.” That makes his face burn all the hotter and was perhaps the wrong thing to say. “And you, of course.”

“Of course.” Santa chuckles. “I still think you deserve some reward. Just as Arthur does.”

“Really?” Merlin gapes then remembers to smile. “I mean, thank you.”

“Yes, indeed,” Santa says, scooting sideways on his seat. “I think you and Arthur should come on the Great Run and help me deliver the presents.”

Merlin's heart fills like it's bursting and he has tears in his eyes and he can't speak. 

“If you're not in a mood to,” Santa says, “you can, naturally, refuse.”

Arthur gives Merlin a sonorous slap on the back. “I believe Merlin would really, really like to join in.”

“Well, then.” Santa gestures with his index and middle fingers. “Come on up. The Great Run awaits.”

In two bounds Merlin's on the sleigh, his pulse in his throat and the biggest smile on his face. When Arthur joins them, Santa sprinkles the fairy dust around them and the reindeer take off. 

The view takes Merlin's breath away. There's not a cloud in the sky so Merlin can see it when the ice sheets give way to the sea and then to blocks of earth, islands, and peninsulas, parts of continents. He can make out the lay-out of forests and the bulk of mountains, the dips the valleys take, the run of rivers as they flow into the oceans.

When he sights the first homes, Merlin's breath is punched out of him. His hands tremble when it comes to passing Santa the presents that need to go down chimney chutes. At first, Merlin's so sure he'll drop the packages before Santa's managed to deliver them, that he's clumsy in everything he does. But after a while he gets into the swing of things and he cracks a smile that stays on his lips for the longest time. His smiles is unbridled and probably makes him look silly, but he can't shake off. 

When Arthur notices it, he grins back too, and there's a soft look in his eyes that makes Merlin's brain cells scramble and his heart go at a rate that veers into the supersonic. 

For a while Merlin can do nothing but look in his direction and dimple at him and it's only when Rudolf circles the same chimney twice that Merlin remembers to hand Santa the next package. 

All night long they fly. They go over Rome and New York, Manila and Sydney, Cape Town and Lima. They visit every corner of the world. Sometimes they steer right into clouds and they can see nothing at all barring puffs of vapour and fluffy mounds of condensation. But when they come out, it's always to see some magnificent sight. They take in lakes and forests, plains and cities so old they're older even than Santa. And when they come upon a house, they park the sleigh out of sight and then either climb down the chimney or make their way in through a window.

It doesn't matter whether the house is big or small, whether there's a chute or not. Santa visits it anyway. They see plenty of hearths. On some mantelpieces stockings hang and these Santa fills till nothing else fits inside. In some fireplaces logs burn. On tables milk and biscuits await. They make themselves invisible – Arthur gets sprinkled with fairy dust – and pad into rooms and parlours, sacks on their backs. When a pet stirs and threatens to wake up the household, they blandish it with treats or use a little magic on it so it's persuaded to go back to napping.

This way, silently, they finish all deliveries, and when dawn breaks, painting the sky pink, they're done for the year. Once again the Great Run has taken place.

They've veered back towards the Pole, the sun starting to rise well past the horizon line, when Merlin finds the breath to say, “It's all so beautiful, the world and everything.” Merlin probably ought to be able to better define what he feels but he isn't as eloquent as all that. He just knows his heart's got so big it's come to encompass the whole of Merlin. “I always wanted to be in the Run, but I had no idea what it was like before.”

“And is it better or worse than you thought?” Arthur asks.

“Better.” Merlin has fallen in love with it, the joy of the ride. “A thousand times better!”

Arthur takes his hand. “I'm glad.” Arthur curls his palm around Merlin's, squeezing, and looks fixedly ahead. “You deserve it. You deserve it all.”


	42. We Have Hung our Stockings Up Beside the Open Grate. And Now There’s Nothing More To Do, Except To Wait.

It's daytime when Santa draws the reins before Arthur's house. “We've come to the end of our ride, Warrior.”

Arthur takes in his home. It's exactly as it was when he left it. Well, obviously. No one's been in. There are no lights on and the plants in the flowerbeds under the window look wilted, faded. Otherwise it's the same old place it's always been. Ordinary, safe, run of the mill. “Right,” Arthur says, dusting his trousers off from all the coal dust that's come to cover them. “Right.”

“I got the right address, haven't I?” Santa says, scanning the neighbourhood as if to ensure he's made no mistakes. “After the night we've had Rudolf is a little tired but I thought his instincts were always true.”

“No, no, it's the right place.” Arthur is home indeed. “It's just that it doesn't feel like my place.” He realises how ridiculous that sounds. It so very obviously is. Even Merlin knows. “I suppose that after travelling the world in one singke night you get a bit... jet-lagged and need some adjusting before feeling at home again."

“I understand,” Santa says, looking at Arthur with a smile in his eyes. “I get all discombobulated after a Great Run too. Usually, after one I sleep for days.”

To a creak of the chassis, Arthur stands and hops off the sleigh. 

Leaning over the sleigh's rail, Merlin puts a hand on Arthur's shoulder. “Hey,” he says. “We haven't... I wanted to say a proper goodbye. If you're not too tired.”

Arthur blinks. “No. Not tired at all.” He smiles and places his hand on top of Merlin's where it rests on him. He smiles. “Actually, I'd do it all over again.”

“It was that great eh.” Merlin beams at him and his eyes are sparkling. “Unfortunately, we won't be needed for another full year.”

“Right.” Arthur sidles from side to side. He doesn't know how to tell Merlin he'd do it all again in a hearbeat just for the joy of seeing Merlin glowing again. “Still, it was fun.”

Merlin hums. “Indeed.”

“Well.” Arthur roams his gaze around. Now's not confession time. Merlin's got to go back where he belongs, the wonderful land of perpetual Christmas, and Arthur's left with London. “I suppose it's goodbye.”

“You must return to your life.” Merlin drops his hand from Arthur's shoulder but brushes his arm with his palm right next. “I get that.”

“Yeah.” His job awaits Arthur and he guesses he has to get back on track. Provided, of course, his boss hasn't fired him over his absence. He can find other employment anyway. He's a good lawyer. “Yeah.”

“Goodbye then.” Merlin's eyes are getting misty. “I-- I wish you the best.”

“And I you.” Arthur studies Merlin's face one last time and he can't say he isn't moved by the expression in it. It makes him wonder. And hope and fear. But it can't be. They're from two different worlds, ones that don't mesh. Merlin's home village is the stuff of myths and legends and no one in Arthur's social circle even believes in it. Not that Arthur'd care about that, but it is telling of how stupid his daydreams are. He was touched by magic once and it's not something he gets to keep. “Be well, Merlin.”

Once he moves, Arthur makes a point of not looking back. With his head down, he fits his key in the lock and gets inside his house. Without bothering to turn on the lights, Arthur sinks into his sofa. He rakes a hand through his hair and sighs. Legs stretched forward, he reclines all the way and rests his head on the back cushion. He's trying to remember where he put the case investigation files he was working on before Merlin took him to the Pole – he smiles at that memory, how mad he'd thought Merlin then – when his phone starts ringing. Arthur's expecting it to be his boss, checking in on him after his absence, but finds instead that it's Matthew. 

“Hi, Arthur,” Matthew says, when he realises Arthur has picked up. “I, well, I wanted to say hi, ask how your Christmas's been.”

“Surprisingly fine actually.” Arthur had thought he would have to lie through his teeth about this. But he's relieved to find that he doesn't. He isn't equivocating at all. “I had an incredibly good time.”

“I'm glad.” Matthew doesn't sound like it at all. “I'm glad.” There's a pause. “Look, I've called because I couldn't leave it like that. We've parted on bad terms. Too bad. I know I'm half responsible, but we had a decent thing going at times, and I feel like going for other people, well, it's hard, and we worked as a couple, at least some of the time. At some level.” He clears his throat. “And I was wondering if you were okay with keeping up a few casual meetings while we adjust to... being single.” There's a pause. “Or until we find more permanent hook ups.”

“Let me get this straight,” Arthur says. “You're asking me whether I'm fine with booty calls?”

“Well, I wouldn't put it exactly like that.” Matthew does some coughing. “I--”

“Matthew, I don't really want to have to listen to this.” The doorbell rings and Arthur's voice is drowned out by that sound. “We're over, we've long been so and, quite frankly, I'm not doing things just because they're convenient.” That's not the road to happiness, Arthur's now come to realise. “So, yeah,” he adds, as he moves to open the door. “I guess this is a goodbye.”

Arthur kills the call and opens the door.

Merlin's standing on the other side with a sheepish smile on his lips. “Santa said I was stupid.”

“I don't quite agree,” Arthur says, then with with a quirk of the lips he adds, “Though I do think you can make that impression.”

“Oh, shut up.” Merlin steps inside and closes the door behind him. “Just let me explain why he said what he said.”

To avoid laughing, Arthur chews on the inside of his cheek. “Go ahead. You've already made yourself comfortable.”

Merlin glares, bites his lip, huffs. “He said I was stupid not talking to you, not pursuing you, because he could tell, don't ask me how, that I'm very sweet on you.” Merlin goes tomato red. “Though his words were actually to this effect: 'tell him how much you love him and don't waste too much time about it. “So, well, here I am.”

“And is it true?” Arthur feels like smiling like a loon, like he's a bit drunk. “Do you love me?”

In response Merlin dives forward and covers his mouth with his. He breathes hard through his nostrils and moves his lips on top of Arthur's in a soft, shiver-raising caress. When Arthur's dizzy with it, he steps back and says, “Is that answer enough?”

“No. No it isn't.” Arthur grabs Merlin by his fair-isle scarf and pulls him closer. “It doesn't even remotely resemble an answer.”

“Before I bare my feelings--” Merlin looks downwards, before flipping his gaze back up again. “I'd like to ask the same question of you.”

Knowing he's as bad at vocalising feelings as Merlin is, Arthur puts a kiss on Merlin's lips. It starts as no more than a buss, a playful smack, but Merlin starts, and grabs him, digs his fingers in his forearm, and the mood changes. Their kiss deepens and becomes much sweeter and slower. It makes them sigh, and move closer, breathe through their nostrils. They lick at the seam of each other's mouths, and tongue at the soft spots in them, sucking on each other's lips till they fatten and redden from all the rubbing. “Is that answer enough?”

“No.” Merlin bites at the smile Arthur's wearing. “Absolutely not.”

“And what would be answer enough?” Arthur says, sliding his palms up and down Merlin's back. “In you honest opinion?”

“I don't know,” Merlin says, nuzzling his face, his neck, “maybe more of this.”

“More of this?” Arthur tilts his head back.

“Yes, exactly that.” Merlin puts a kiss to his throat and another and another. “My, my, you smell like the Santa Village--”

Arthur steps back and away from Merlin's embrace. “Is that why?”

Merlin makes big eyes at him. “Is that why what?”

“The reason you like me?” Arthur asks, unable to refrain from gesticulating. “Because I remind you of Christmas, of the mission, because I'm the Warrior.”

“What no!” Merlin's voice rises to heights heretofore unknown. “It's true, I admire you because of what you did. I think it takes guts to pull that off. And I'm grateful you saved us all. But that's got nothing to do – aside from a general reflection on how good you are – with my liking you.” As if he's run out of air, Merlin takes a big breath. “I just do. Very, very much.”

“Is that so?” Arthur asks, a stone – well, no a massive boulder – lifting from off his heart. “Is that really, truly, so?”

“Yes.” Merlin takes his hand, steps closer, kisses his palm, walks right into Arthur's arms. “Yes.”

Arthur takes Merlin upstairs to his room and to his bed, where he undresses him and learns the shape and bareness of him. As they move, the bed creaks. The mattress sighs when they roll one on top of the other and the sheets come undone. 

Merlin touches him gently, with love and reverence, his hands a brand, a weight that makes Arthur's heart go heavy with fast-coursing blood. In a dizzying crescendo, they kiss each other's bodies, fit them one with the other, till they're a tangle of limbs and body parts, of tongues, and sighs and breaths. When the strain reaches breaking point, when their muscles lengthen and lock, they go faster, so fast it actually seems as all time will stop, and lose themselves in the push and pull of each other. All thought dissolving into a self-assured knowledge of love, Arthur goes light headed. 

When Arthur finishes, he soars. And when Merlin does, he looks at Arthur like he's some sort of hero, and Arthur feels that he could be, could become one, and he says, “Thank you, Merlin.”

“Thank you, Arthur.”

And when noises start get louder on the streets – carollers' singing filling the hush with their warm tones – they exchange their 'Merry Christmases'.

 

The End.

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